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THE 


YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER; 

OK, 

A  CHEONICLE  OF  MISTAKES. 


BY  THE   AUTHOR   OP 

THE  HEIR  OF  REDCLYFFE,'  '  HEARTSEASE,'  ETC. 


Fail — yet  rejoice,  because  no  less 
The  failure  that  makes  thy  distress 
May  teach  another  full  success. 

Nor  with  thy  share  of  work  be  vexed,    * 
Though  incomplete  and  even  perplexed 
It  fits  exactly  to  the  next 

Adelaide  A.  Proctor. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES, 

VOL  I. 


NEW  YORK  : 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

443    &   445    BROADWAY, 
1862. 


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<*  ■ 


o  2  *• 


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**    & 


THE  YOUNG  STEP-MOTHEB. 


CHAPTEE  I. 


4  Have  you  talked  it  over  with  her  ? '  said  Mr.  Fer- 
rars,  as  his  little  slender  wife  met  him  under  the  beeches 
that  made  an  avenue  of  the  lane  leading  to  Fairmead 


a 


*  Yes  ! '  was  the  answer,  which  the  vicar  was  not  slow 
to  understand. 

' I  cannot  say  I  expected  much  from  your  conversation, 
and  perhaps  we  ought  not  to  wish  it.  We  are  likely  to 
see  with  selfish  eyes,  for  what  shall  we  do  without  her  ? ' 

'  Dear  Albinia !  You  always  taunted  me  with  having 
married  your  sister  as  much  as  yourself.' 

'  So  I  shall  again,  if  you  cannot  give  her  up  wilh  a  good 
grace.' 

*  If  I  could  have  had  my  own  way  in  disposing  of  her.' 
'  Perhaps  the  hero  of  your  own  composition  might  be 

less  satisfactory  to  her  than  is  Kendal.' 

1  At  least  he  should  be  minus  the  children  ! ' 

'  I  fancy  the  children  are  one  great  attraction.     Do 

you  know  how  many  there  are  1 ' 

'  Three  ;  but  if  Albinia  knows  their  ages  she  involves 

them  in  a  discreet  haze.      I  imagine  some  are  in  their 

teens.' 

1  Impossible,  Winifred  ;  he  is  hardly  five-and- thirty.' 


39£6£/t 


4  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

'  Thirty-eight,  he  said  yesterday,  and  he  married  very 
early.  I  asked  Albinia  if  her  son  would  be  in  tail-coats ; 
but  she  thought  I  was  laughing  at  her,  and  would  not 
say.  She  is  quite  eager  at  the  notion  of  being  governess 
to  the  girls.' 

'She  has  wanted  scope  for  her  energies,'  said  Mr. 
Ferrars.  'Even  spoiling  her  nephew,  and  being  my 
curate,  have  not  afforded  field  enough  for  her  spirit  of  use- 
fulDess.' 

'  That  is  what  I  am  afraid  of.' 

'Of  what,  Winifred?' 

1  That  it  is  my  fault.  Before  our  marriage,  you  and 
she  were  the  whole  world  to  each  other ;  but  since  I  came, 
I  have  seen,  as  you  say,  that  the  craving  for  work  was 
strong,  and  I  fear  it  actuates  her  more  than  she  knows.' 

'  So  such  thing.  It  is  a  case  of  good  hearty  love. 
What,  are  you  afraid  of  that,  too  ? ' 

'Yes,  I  am.  I  grudge  her  giving  her  fresh  whole 
young  heart  away  to  a  man  who  has  no  return  to  make. 
His  heart  is  in  his  first  wife's  grave.  Yes,  you  may  smile, 
Maurice,  as  if  I  were  talking  romance ;  but  only  look  at 
him,  poor  man !  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  so  utterly 
broken  down  ?     She  can  hardly  beguile  a  smile  from  him.' 

'  His  melancholy  is  one  of  his  charms  in  her  eyes.' 

'  So  it  may  be,  as  a  sort  of  interesting  romance.  I 
am  sure  I  pity  the  poor  man  heartily ;  but  to  see  her  at 
three-and-twenty,  with  her  sweet  face  and  high  spirits, 
give  herself  away  to  a  man  who  looks  but  half  alive,  and 
cannot,  if  he  would,  return  that  full  first  love — have  the 
charge  of  a  tribe  of  children,  be  spied  and  commented  on 
by  the  first  wife's  relations — Maurice,  I  cannot  bear  it.' 

'  It  is  not  what  we  should  have  chosen,'  said  her  hus- 
band, '  but  it  has  a  bright  side.  Kendal  is  a  most  right- 
minded,  superior  man,  and  she  appreciates  him  thoroughly. 
She  has  great  energy  and  cheerfulness,  and  if  she  can 
comfort  him,  and  rouse  him  into  activity,  and  be  the  kind 
mother  she  will  be  to  his  poor  children,  I  do  not  think  we 
ought  to  grudge  her  from  our  own  home.' 

'  You  and  she  have  so  strong  feeling  for  motherless 
children ! ' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  5 

'  Thinking  of  Kendal  as  I  do,  I  have  but  one  fear  for 
her.' 

*  I  have  many — the  chief  being  the  grandmother.' 

I  Mine  will  make  you  angry,  but  it  is  my  only  one. 
You,  who  have  only  known  her  since  she  has  subdued  it, 
have  probably  never  guessed  that  she  has  that  sort  of 
quick  sensitive  temper — ' 

'  Maurice,  Maurice !  as  if  I  had  not  been  a  most  pro- 
voking, presuming  sister-in-law.  As  if  I  had  not  acted 
so  that  if  Albinia  ever  had  a  temper,  she  must  have 
shown  it.' 

I I  knew  you  would  not  believe  me,  and  I  really  am 
not  afraid  of  her  doing  any  harm  by  it,  if  that  is  what 
you  suspect  me  of.  No,  indeed  ;  but  I  fear  it  may  make 
her  feel  any  trials  of  her  position  more  acutely  than  a 
placid  person  would.' 

'  Oho !  so  you  own  there  will  be  trials  ! ' 

c  My  dear  "Winifred,  as  if  I  had  not  set  up  till  twelve 
last  night  laying  them  before  Albinia.  How  sick  the 
poor  child  must  be  of  our  arguments,  when  there  is  no 
real  objection,  and  she  is  so  much  attached !  Have  you 
heard  anything  about  these  connexions  of  his  ?  Did  you 
not  write  to  Mrs.  Nugent  1     I  wish  she  were  at  home.' 

' I  had  her  answer  by  this  afternoon's  post,  but  there 
is  nothing  to  tell.  Mr.  Kendal  has  only  been  settled  at 
Bay  ford  Bridge  a  few  years,  and  she  never  visited 'any 
one  there,  though  Mr.  Nugent  had  met  Mr.  Kendal  sev- 
eral times  before  his  wife's  death,  and  liked  him.  Emily 
is  charmed  to  have  Albinia  for  a  neighbour.' 

c  Does  she  know  nothing  of  the  Meadows'  family  ? ' 

*  Nothing  but  that  old  Mrs.  Meadows  lives  in  the 
town  with  one  unmarried  daughter.  She  speaks  highly 
of  the  clergyman.' 

'  John  Dusautoy  ?  Ay,  he  is  admirable — not  that  I 
have  done  more  than  see  him  at  visitations  when  he  was 
curate   at  Lauriston.' 

1  Is  he  married  1 ' 

'  I  fancy  he  is,  but  I  am  not  sure.  There  is  one  good 
friend  for  Albinia  any  way  ! ' 

'  And  now  for  your  investigations.  Did  you  see 
Colonel  Bury  ?  ' 


b  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

*  I  did,  but  he  could  say  little  more  than  we  knew. 
He  says  nothing  could  be  more  exemplary  than  Kendal's 
whole  conduct  in  India ;  he  only  regretted  that  he  kept 
so  much  aloof  from  others,  that  his  principle  and  gentle- 
manly feeling  did  not  tell  as  much  as  could  have  been 
wished.  He  has  always  been  wrapped  up  in  his  own 
pursuits — a  perfect  dictionary  of  information.' 

1  We  had  found  out  that,  though  he  is  so  silent.  I 
should  think  him  a  most  elegant  scholar.' 

'  And  a  deep  one.  He  has  studied  and  polished  his 
acquirements  to  the  utmost.  I  assure  you,  Winifred,  I 
mean  to  be  proud  of  my  brother-in-law.' 

'  What  did  you  hear  of  the  first  wife  ? ' 

'  It  was  an  early  marriage.  He  went  home  as  soon 
as  he  had  sufficient  salary,  married  her,  and  brought  her 
out.  She  was  a  brilliant  dark  beauty,  who  became 
quickly  a  motherly,  housewifely,  commonplace  person. 
I  should  think  there  had  been  a  poet's  love,  never  awak- 
ened from.' 

'The  very  thing  that  has  always  struck  me  when, 
poor  man,  he  has  tried  to  be  civil  to  me.  Here  is  a 
man,  sensible  himself,  but  who  has  never  had  the  hap  to 
live  with  sensible  women.' 

1  When  their  children  grew  too  old  for  India,  she  came 
into  some  little  property  at  Bayford  Bridge,  which  enabled 
him  to  retire.  Colonel  Bury  came  home  in  the  same 
ship,  and  saw  much  of  them,  liked  him  better  and  better, 
and  seems  to  have  been  rather  wrearied  by  her.  A  very 
good  woman,  he  says,  and  Kendal  most  fondly  attached  ; 
but  as  to  comparing  her  with  Miss  Ferrars,  he  could  not 
think  of  it .  for  a  moment.  So  they  settled  at  Bayford, 
and  there,  about  two  years  ago,  came  this  terrible  visita- 
tion of  typhus  fever.' 

'  I  remember  how  Colonel  Bury  used  to  come  and 
sigh  over  his  friend's  illness  and  trouble.'      * 

'  He  could  not  help  going  over  it  again.  The  children 
all  fell  ill  together — the  two  eldest  were  twin  boys,  one 
puny,  the  other  a  very  fine  fellow,  and  his  father's  especial 
pride  and  delight.  As  so  often  happens,  the  sickly  one 
was  spared,  the  healthy  one  was  taken.' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  1 

*  Then  Albinia  will  have  an  invalid  on  her  hands  ! ' 
1  The  Colonel  says  this  Edmund  was  a  particularly 

promising  boy,  and  poor  Kendal  felt  the  loss  dreadfully. 

He  sickened  after  that,  and  his  wife  was  worn  out  with 

nursing  and  grief,  and  sank  under  the  fever   at   once. 

Poor  Kendal  has  never  held  up  his  head  since  ;  he  had  a 

terrible  relapse.' 

I  And,'  said  Winifred,  '  he  no  sooner  recovers  than  he 
goes  and  marries  our  Albinia  ! ' 

'  Two  years,  my  dear.' 

{  Pray  explain  to  me,  Maurice,  why,  when  people  be- 
come widowed  in  any  unusually  lamentable  way,  they 
always  are  the  first  to  marry  again.' 

'  Incorrigible  !     I  meant  to  make  you  pity  him.' 

I I  did,  till  I  found  I  had  wasted  my  pity.  Why  could 
not  these  Meadowses  look  after  his  children  ?  Why  must 
the  Colonel  bring  him  here  ?  I  believe  it  was  with  malice 
prepense ! a 

i  The  Colonel  went  to  see  after  him,  and  found  him  so 
drooping  and  wretched,  that  he  insisted  on  bringing  him 
home  with  him ;  and  old  Mrs.  Meadows  and  her  daughter 
almost  forced  him  to  accept  the  invitation.' 

'  They  little  guessed  what  the  Colonel  would  be  at ! ' 

'  You  will  be  better  now  you  have  the  Colonel  to 
abuse,'  said  her  husband. 

1  And  pray  what  do  you  mean  to  say  to  the  General  ? ' 

'  Exactly  what  I  think.' 

'  And  to  the  aunts  ? '  slily  asked  the  wife. 

'  I  think  I  shall  leave  you  all  that  correspondence.  It 
will  be  too  edifying  to  see  you  making  common  cause 
with  the  aunts.' 

1  That  comes  of  trying  to  threaten  one's  husband  ;  and 
here  they  come,'  said  Winifred.  '  Well,  Maurice,  what 
can't  be  cured  must  be  endured.  Albinia's  heart  is  gone ; 
he  is  a  very  good  man,  and  spite  of  India,  first  wife,  and 
melancholy,  he  does  not  look  amiss  ! ' 

Mr.  Ferrars  smiled  at  the  chary,  grudging  commen- 
dation of  the  tall,  handsome  man  who  advanced  through 
the  beech-wood ;  but  it  was  too  true  that  his  clear  olive 
complexion  had  not  the  hue  of  health,  that  there  was  a 


THE  YOUNG  STEP-MOTHER. 

world  of  oppression  on  his  broad  brow  and  deep  hazel 
eyes,  and  that  it  was  a  dim,  dreamy,  reluctant  smile  that 
was  awakened  by  the  voice  of  the  lady  who  walked  by 
his  side,  as  if  reverencing  his  grave  mood. 

She  was  rather  tall,  very  graceful,  and  well  made,  but 
her  features  were  less  handsome  than  sweet,  bright,  and 
sensible.  Her  hair  was  nut-brown,  in  long  curled  waves  ; 
her  eyes,  deep  soft  grey,  and  though  downcast  under  the 
new  sympathies,  new  feelings,  and  responsibilities  that 
crowded  on  her,  the  smile  and  sparkle  that  lighted  them  as 
she  blushed  and  nodded  to  her  brother  and  sister,  showed 
that  liveliness  was  the  natural  expression  of  that  engaging 
face. 

Say  what  they  would,  it  was  evident  that  Albinia 
Ferrars  had  cast  in  her  lot  with  Edmund  Kendal,  and 
that  her  energetic  spirit  and  love  of  children  animated  her 
to  embrace  joyfully  the  cares  which  such  a  choice  must 
impose  on  her. 

As  might  have  been  perceived  by  one  glance  at  the 
figure,  step,  and  bearing  of  Mr.  Ferrars,  perfectly  clerical 
though  they  were,  he  belonged  to  a  military  family.  His 
father  had  been  a  distinguished  Peninsular  officer,  and  his 
brother,  older  by  many  years,  held  a  command  in  Can- 
ada. Maurice  and  Albinia,  early  left  orphans,  had,  with 
a  young  cousin,  been  chiefly  under  the  charge  of  their 
aunts,  Mrs.  Annesley  and  Miss  Ferrars,  and  had  found  a 
kind  home  in  their  house  in  Mayfair,  until  Maurice  had 
been  ordained  to  the  family  living  of  Fairmead,  and  his 
sister  had  gone  to  live  with  him  there,  extorting  the  con- 
sent of  her  elder  brother  to  her  spending  a  more  real  and 
active  life  than  her  aunts'  round  of  society  could  offer  her. 

The  aunts  lamented,  but  they  could  seldom  win  their 
darling  to  them  for  more  than  a  few  weeks  at  a  time,  even 
after  their  nephew  Maurice  had — as  they  considered — 
thrown  himself  away  on  a  little  lively  lady  of  Irish  par- 
entage, no  equal  in  birth  or  fortune,  in  their  opinion,  for 
the  grandson  of  Lord  Belraven. 

They  had  been  very  friendly  to  the  young  wife,  but 
their  hopes  had  all  the  more  been  fixed  on  Albinia ;  and 
even  Winifred  could  afford  them  some  generous  pity  in 


THE   YOUXG   STEP-MOTHEK. 


the  engagement  of  their  favourite  niece  to  a  retired  East 
India  Company's  servant — a  widower  with  three  children. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  equinoctial  sun  had  long  set,  and  the  blue  haze 
of  March  east  wind  had  deepened  into  twilight  and  dark- 
ness when  Albinia  Kendal  found  herself  driving  down  the 
steep  hilly  street  of  Bay  ford.  The  town  was  not  large 
nor  modern  enough  for  gas,  and  the  dark  street  was  only 
lighted  here  and  there  by  a  shop  of  more  pretension  ;  the 
plate-glass  of  the  enterprising  draper,  with  the  light  veiled 
by  shawls  and  ribbons ;  the  '  purple  jars,'  green,  ruby, 
and  crimson  of  the  chemist ;  and  the  modest  ray  of  the 
grocer,  revealing  busy  heads  driving  Saturday-night  bar- 
gains. 

*  How  well  I  soon  shall  know  them  all,'  said  Albinia, 
looking  at  her  husband,  though  she  knew  she  could  not 
see  his  face,  as  he  leant  back  silently  in  his  corner,  and 
she  tried  to  say  no  more.  She  was  sure  that  coming 
home  was  painful  to  him  ;  he  had  been  so  willing  to  put 
it  off,  and  to  prolong  those  pleasant  seaside  days,  when 
there  had  been  such  pleasant  reading,  walking,  musing, 
and  a  great  deal  of  happy  silence. 

Down  the  hill,  and  a  little  way  on  level  ground — 
houses  on  one  side,  something  like  hedge  or  shrubbery  on 
the  other — a  stop — a  gate  opened — a  hollow  sound  be- 
neath the  carriage,  as  though  crossing  a  wooden  bridge — 
trees — bright  windows — an  open  door — and  light  stream- 
ing from  it. 

'  Here  is  your  home,  Albinia,'  said  that  deep  musical 
voice  that  she  loved  the  better  for  the  subdued  melan- 
choly of  the  tones,  and  the  suppressed  sigh  that  could  not 
be  hidden. 

'  And  my  children  ! '  she  eagerly  said,  as  he  handed  her 
out,  and,  springing  to  the  ground,  she  hurried  to  the  open 
door  opposite,  where,  in  the  lamp-light,  she  saw,  moving 
l* 


10  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

about  in  shy  curiosity  and  embarrassment,  two  girls  in 
white  frocks  and  broad  scarlet  sashes,  and  a  boy,  who,  as 
she  advanced,  retreated  with  his  younger  sister  to  the 
fireplace,  while  the  elder  one,  a  pretty,  and  rather  formal 
looking  girl  of  twelve,  stood  forward. 

Albinia  held  out  her  arms,  saying,  '  You  are  Lucy,  I 
am  sure,'  and  eagerly  kissed  the  girl's  smiling,  bright  face. 

'  Yes,  I  am  Lucy,'  was  the  well-pleased  answer ;  '  I  am 
glad  you  are  come.' 

1 1  hope  we  shall  be  very  good  friends,'  said  Albinia, 
with  the  sweet  smile  that  few,  young  or  old,  could  resist. 
'  And  this  is  Gilbert,'  as  she  kissed  the  blushing  cheek  of 
a  thin  boy  of  thirteen — '  and  Sophia.' 

Sophia,  who  was  eleven,  had  not  stirred  to  meet  her. 
She  alone  inherited  her  father's  fine  straight  profile,  and 
large  black  eyes ;  but  she  had  the  heaviness  of  feature 
that  sometimes  goes  with  very  dark  complexions.  The 
white  frock  did  not  become  her  brown  neck  and  arms ; 
her  thick  black  hair  was  arranged  in  too  womanly  a 
manner,  and  her  head  and  face  looked  too  large  ;  more- 
over, there  was  no  lighting  up  to  answer  the  greeting,  and 
Albinia  was  disappointed. 

Poor  child,  she  thought,  she  is  feeling  deeply  that  I 
am  an  interloper ;  it  will  be  different  now  her  father  is 
coming. 

Mr.  Kendal  was  crossing  the  hall,  and  as  he  entered 
he  took  the  hand  and  kissed  the  forehead  of  each  of  the 
three,  but  Sophia  stood  with  the  same  half-sullen  indiffer- 
ence— it  might  be  shyness  or  sensibility. 

'  How  much  you  are  grown  ! '  he  said,  looking  at  the 
children  with  some  surprise. 

In  fact,  though  Albinia  knew  their  ages,  they  were  all 
on  a  larger  scale  than  she  had  expected,  and  looked  too 
old  for  the  children  of  a  man  of  his  youthful  appearance. 
Gilbert  had  the  slight  look  of  rapid  growth ;  Lucy,  though 
not  so  tall,  and  with  a  small,  clear,  bright  face,  had  the 
air  of  a  little  woman  j  and  Sophia's  face  might  have  be- 
fitted any  age. 

1  Yes,  papa,'  said  Lucy  ;  '  Gilbert  has  grown  an  inch- 
and-a-half  since  October,  for  we  measured  him.' 


THE   YOUXG    STEP-MOTHER.  11 

Have  you  been  well,  Gilbert  ? '  continued  Mr.  Ken- 
dal, anxiously. 

'  I  have  the  toothache,'  said  Gilbert,  piteously. 

1  Happily,  nothing  more  serious/  thrust  in  Lucy ; 
'  Mr.  Bowles  told  Aunt  Maria  that  he  considers  Gilbert's 
health  much  improved.' 

Albinia  asked  some  kind  questions  about  the  delin- 
quent tooth,  but  the  answers  were  short ;  and,  to  put  an 
end  to  the  general  constraint,  she  asked  Lucy  to  show  her 
to  her  room. 

It  was  a  pretty  bay-windowed  room,  and  looked  cheer- 
ful in  the  firelight.  Lucy's  tongue  was  at  once  unloosed, 
telling  that  Gilbert's  tutor,  Mr.  Salsted,  had  insisted  on 
his  having  his  tooth  extracted,  and  that  he  had  refused, 
saying  it  was  quite  well ;  but  Lucy  gave  it  as  her  opinion 
that  he  much  preferred  the  toothache  to  his  lessons. 

<  Where  does  Mr.  Salsted  live  ? ' 

'  At  Tremblam,  about  two  miles  off;  Gilbert  rides 
the  pony  over  there  every  day,  except  when  he  has  the 
toothache,  and  then  he  stays  at  home.' 

*  And  what  do  you  do  ? ' 

I  We  went  to  Miss  Belmarche  till  the  end  of  our 
quarter,  and  since  that  we  have  been  at  home,  or  with 
grandmamma.  Do  you  really  mean  that  we  are  to  study 
with  you  ? ' 

I I  should  like  it,  my  dear.  I  have  been  looking  for- 
ward very  much  to  teaching  you  and  Sophia.' 

'  Thank  you,  mamma.' 

The  word  was  said  with  an  effort,  as  if  it  came  strangely, 
but  it  thrilled  Albinia's  heart,  and  she  kissed  Lucy,  who 
clung  to  her,  and  returned  the  caress. 

1 1  shall  tell  Gilbert  and  Sophy  what  a  dear  mamma 
you  are,'  she  said.  '  Do  you  know,  Sophy  says  she  shall 
never  call  you  anything  but  Mrs.  Kendal ;  and  I  know 
Gilbert  means  the  same. 

1  Let  them  call  me  whatever  suits  them  best,'  said 
Albinia  ;  '  I  had  rather  they  waited  till  they  feel  that  they 
like  to  call  me  as  you  have  done — thank  you  for  it,  dear 
Lucy.  You  must  not  fancy  I  shall  be  at  all  hurt  at  your 
thinking  of  times  past.     I  shall  want  you  to  tell  me  of 


12  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

them,  and  of  your  own  dear  mother,  and  what  will  suit 
papa  best.' 

Luey  looked  highly  gratified,  and  eagerly  said, '  I  am 
sure  I  shall  love  you  just  like  my  own  mamma.' 

1  No,'  said  Albinia,  kindly  ;  '  I  do  not  expect  that,  my 
dear.  I  don't  ask  for  any  more  than  you  can  freely  give, 
dear  child.  You  must  bear  with  having  me"  in  that  place, 
and  we  will  try  and  help  each  other  to  make  your  papa 
comfortable  ;  and,  Lucy,  you  will  forgive  me,  if  I  am  im- 
petuous, and  make  mistakes.' 

Lucy's  little  clear  black  eyes  looked  as  if  nothing  like 
this  had  ever  come  within  her  range  of  observation,  and 
Albinia  could  sympathize  with  her  difficulty  of  reply. 

Mr.  Kendal  was  not  in  the  drawing-room  when  they 
re-entered  ;  there  was  only  Gilbert  nursing  his  toothache 
by  the  fire,  and  Sophy  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  rug, 
holding  up  a  screen.  She  said  something  good-natured 
to  each,  but  neither  responded  graciously,  and  Lucy  went 
on  talking,  showing  off  the  room,  the  chiffonieres,  the  or- 
naments, and  some  pretty  Indian  ivory  carvings.  There 
wras  a  great  ottoman  of  Aunt  Maria's  work,  and  a  huge 
cushion  with  an  Arab  horseman,  that  Lucy  would  uncover, 
whispering,  c  Poor  mamma  worked  it,  while  Sophy  vis- 
ibly winced,  and  Albinia  hurried  it  into  the  chintz  cover 
again,  lest  Mr.  Kendal  should  come.  But  Lucy  had  full 
time  to  be  communicative  about  the  household  with  such 
a  satisfied,  capable  manner,  that  Albinia  asked  if  she  had 
been  keeping  house  all  this  time. 

1  No ;  old  Nurse  kept  the  keys,  and  managed  till 
now  ;  but  she  went  this  morning.' 

Sophy's  mouth  twitched. 

'  She  was  so  very  fond — '  continued  Lucy. 

1  Don't ! '  burst  out  Sophy,  almost  the  first  word 
Albinia  had  heard  from  her ;  but  no  more  passed,  for 
Mr.  Kendal  came  in,  and  Lucy's  conversation  instantly 
was  at  an  end. 

Before  him  she  was  almost  as  silent  as  the  others,  and 
he  seldom  addressed  himself  to  her,  only  inquiring  once 
after  her  grandmamma's  health,  and  once  calling  Sophy 
out  of  the  way  when  she  was  standing  between  the  fire 


THE   YOUXG   STEP-MOTHEB.  13 

and —  He  finished  with  the  gesture  of  command,  whether 
he  said  '  Your  mamma,'  none  could  tell. 

It  was  late,  and  the  meal  was  not  over  before  bed- 
time, when  Albinia  lingered  to  find  remedies  for  Gilbert's 
toothache,  pleased  to  feel  herself  making  a  commence- 
ment of  motherly  care,  and  to  meet  an  affectionate  glance 
of  thanks  from  Mr.  Kendal's  eye.  Gilbert,  too,  thanked 
her  with  less  shyness  than  before,  and  was  hopeful  about 
the  remedy ;  and  with  the  feeling  of  having  made  a  be- 
ginning, she  ran  down  to  tell  Mr.  Kendal  that  she 
thought  he  had  hardly  done  justice  to  the  children — they 
were  fine  creatures — something  so  sweet  and  winning 
about  Lucy — she  liked  Gilbert's  countenance — Sophy 
must  have  something  deep  and  noble  in  her. 

He  lifted  his  head  to  look  at  her  bright  face,  and  said, 
'  They  are  very  much  obliged  to  you.' 

I  You  must  not  say  that,  they  are  my  own.' 

'  I  will  not  say  it  again,  but  as  I  look  at  you,  and  the 
home  to  which  I  have  brought  you,  I  feel  that  I  have 
acted  selfishly.' 

Albinia  timidly  pressed  his  hand.  '  Work  was  always 
what  I  wished,'  she  said ;  '  if  only  I  could  do  any  thing  to 
lighten  your  grief  and  care.' 

He  gave  a  deep,  heavy  sigh.  Albinia  felt  that  if  he 
had  hoped  to  have  lessened  the  sadness,  he  had  surely 
found  it  again  at  his  own  door.  He  roused  himself,  how- 
ever, to  say,  '  This  is  using  you  ill,  Albinia ;  no  one  is 
more  sensible  of  it  than  I  am.' 

'  I  never  sought  more  than  you  can  give,'  she  mur- 
mured ;  '  I  only  wish  to  do  what  I  can  for  you,  and  you 
will  not  let  me  disturb  yon.' 

'  1  am  very  grateful  to  you,'  was  his  answer ;  a  sad 
welcome  for  a  bride.  '  And  these  poor  children  will  owe 
every  thing  to  you.' 

I I  wish  I  may  do  right  by  them,'  said  Albinia,  fer- 
vently. 

'  The  flower  of  the  flock  ' — began  Mr.  Kendal,  but  he 
broke  off  at  once. 

Albinia  had  told  Winifred  that  she  could  bear  to  have 
his  wife's  memory  first  with  him,  and  that  she  knew  that 


14  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

she  could  not  compensate  to  him  for  his  loss ;  but  the 
actual  sight  of  his  dejection  came  on  her  with  a  chill,  and 
she  had  to  call  up  all  her  energies  and  hopes,  and,  still 
better,  the  thought  of  strength  not  her  own,  to  enable  her 
to  look  cheerfully  on  the  prospect.  Sleep  revived  her 
elastic  spirits,  and  with  eager  curiosity  she  drew  up  her 
blind  in  the  morning,  for  the  first  view  of  her  new  home. 

But  there  was  a  veil — moisture  made  the  panes  re- 
semble ground  glass,  and  when  she  had  rubbed  that  away, 
and  secured  a  clear  corner,  her  range  of  vision  was  not 
much  more  extensive.  She  could  only  see  the  grey  out- 
line of  trees  and  shrubs,  obscured  by  the  heavy  mist ;  and 
on  the  lawn  below,  a  thick  cloud  that  seemed  to  hang 
over  a  dark  space  which  she  suspected  to  be  a  large 
pond. 

1  There  is  very  little  to  be  gained  by  looking  out 
here  ! '  Albinia  soliloquized.  *  It  is  not  doing  the  place 
justice  to  study  it  on  a  misty,  moisty  morning.  It  looks 
now  as  if  that  fever  might  have  come  bodily  out  of  the 
pond.  I'll  have  no  more  to  say  to  it  till  the  sun  has 
licked  up  the  fog,  and  made  it  bright !  Sunday  morning 
— my  last  Sunday  without  school-teaching,  I  hope  !  I 
famish  to  begin  again — and  I  will  make  time  for  that,  and 
the  girls  too  !  I  am  glad  he  consents  to  my  doing  what- 
ever I  please  in  that  way  !  I  hope  Mr.  Dusautoy  will ! 
I  wish  Edmund  knew  him  better — but  oh  !  what  a  shy 
man  he  is  ! ' 

With  a  light  step  she  went  down-stairs,  and  found 
Mr.  Kendal  waiting  for  her  in  the  dining-room,  his  face 
brightening  as  she  entered. 

'  I  am  sorry  Bayford  should  wear  this  heavy  cloud  to 
receive  you,'  he  said. 

'  It  will  soon  clear,'  she  answered,  cheerfully.  '  Have 
you  heard  of  poor  Gilbert  this  morning  ? ' 

'  Not  yet.'  Then,  after  a  pause,  '  I  have  generally 
gone  to  Mrs.  Meadows  after  the  morning  service,'  he 
said,  speaking  with  constraint. 

1  You  will  take  me  ? '  said  Albinia.  c  I  wish  it,  1 
assure  you.' 

It  was  evidently  what  he  wished  her  to  propose,  and 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  15 

he  added,  '  She  must  never  feel  herself  neglected,  and  it 
will  be  better  at  once.' 

'  So  much  more  cordial,'  said  Albinia.  '  Pray  let 
us  go  ! ' 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  voices  of  the  girls — not 
unpleasing  voices,  but  loud  and  unsubdued,  and  with  a 
slight  tone  of  provincialism,  which  seemed  to  hurt  Mr. 
Kendal's  ears,  for  he  said,  '  I  hope  you  will  tune  those 
voices  to  something  less  unlike  your  own.' 

As  he  spoke,  the  sisters  appeared  in  the  full  and  con- 
scious rustling  of  new  lilac  silk  dresses,  which  seemed  to 
have  happily  carried  off  all  Sophy's  sullenness ;  for  she 
made  much  more  brisk  and  civil  answers,  and  ran  across 
the  room  in  a  boisterous  maimer,  when  her  father  sent 
her  to  see  whether  Gilbert  were  up. 

There  was  a  great  clatter,  and  Gilbert  chased  her  in, 
breathless  and  scolding,  but  the  tongues  were  hushed  be- 
fore papa,  and  no  more  was  heard  than  that  the  tooth  was 
better,  and  had  not  kept  him  awake.  Lucy  seemed  dis- 
posed to  make  conversation,  overwhelming  Albinia  with 
needless  repetitions  of  '  Mamma  dear,'  and  plunging  into 
what  Mrs.  Bowles  and  Miss  Goldsmith  had  said  of  Mr. 
Dusautoy,  and  how  he  kept  so  few  servants,  and  the 
butcher  had  no  orders  last  time  he  called.  Aunt  Maria 
thought  he  starved  and  tyrannized  over  that  poor  little 
sickly  Mrs.  Dusautoy. 

Mr.  Kendal  said  not  one  word,  and  seemed  not  to 
hear.  Arbinia  felt  as  if  she  had  fallen  into  a  whirlpool 
of  gossip  ;  she  looked  towards  him,  and  hoped  to  let  the 
conversation  drop,  but  Sophy  answered  her  sister,  and,  at 
last,  when  it  came  to  something  about  what  Jane  heard 
from  Mrs.  Osborn's  Susan,  Albinia  gently  whispered,  I 
do  not  think  this  entertains  your  papa,  my  dear,'  and 
silence  sank  upon  them  all. 

Albinia's  next  venture  was  to  ask  about  that  which 
had  been  her  Sunday  pleasure  from  childhood,  and  she 
turned  to  Sophy,  and  said,  I  suppose  you  have  not  begun 
to  teach  at  the  school  yet  ? ' 

Sophy's  great  eyes  expanded,  and  Lucy  said, '  Oh  dear 
mamma !  nobody  does  that  but  Genevieve  Durant  and 


16  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

the  monitors.  Miss  Wolfe  did  till  Mr.  Dusautoy  came, 
but  she  does  not  approve  of  him.' 

'  Lucy,  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,'  said 
Mr.  Kendal,  and  again  there  was  an  annihilating  silence, 
which  Albinia  did  not  attempt  to  disturb. 

At  church  time,  she  met  the  young  ladies  in  the  hall, 
in  pink  bonnets  and  sea-green  mantillas  over  the  lilac 
silks,  all  evidently  put  on  for  the  first  time  in  her  honour, 
an  honour  of  which  she  felt  herself  the  less  deserving,  as, 
sensible  that  this  was  no  case  for  bridal  display,  she  wore 
a  quiet  dark  silk,  a  Cashmere  shawl,  and  plain  straw  bon- 
net, trimmed  with  white. 

With  manifest  wish  for  reciprocity,  Lucy  fell  into 
transports  over  the  shawl ;  but  gaining  nothing  by  this, 
Sophy  asked  if  she  did  not  like  the  mantillas  ?  Albinia 
could  only  make  civility  compatible  with  truth  by  saying 
that  the  colour  was  pretty,  but  where  was  Gilbert  ?  He 
was  on  a  stool  before  the  dining-room  fire,  looking  pit- 
eous, and  pronouncing  his  tooth  far  too  bad  for  going  to 
church,  and  she  had  just  time  for  a  fresh  administration 
of  camphor  before  M r.  Kendal  came  forth  from  his  study, 
and  gave  her  his  arm. 

The  front  door  opened  on. a  narrow  sweep,  the  river 
cutting  it  off  from  the  road,  and  crossed  by  two  wooden 
bridges,  beside  each  of  which  stood  a  weeping-willow, 
budding  with  fresh  spring  foliage.  Opposite  were  houses 
of  various  pretensions,  and  sheer  behind  them  rose  the 
steep  hill,  with  the  church  nearly  at  the  summit,  the 
noble  spire  tapering  high  above,  and  the  bells  ringing  out 
a  cheerful  chime.  The  mist  had  drawn  up,  and  all  was 
fresh  and  clear. 

'  There  go  Lizzie  and  Loo ! ?  cried  Lucy,  ■  and  the 
Admiral  and  Mrs.  Osborn.  I'll  run  and  tell  them  papa 
is  come  home.' 

Sophy  was  setting  off  als •>,  but  Mr.  Kendal  stopped 
them,  and  lingered  a  moment  or  two,  making  an  excuse 
of  looking  for  a  needless  umbrella,  but  in  fact  to  avoid 
the  general  gaze.  As  if  making  a  desperate  plunge,  how- 
ever, and  looking  up  and  down  the  broad  street,  so  as  to 
be  secure  that  no  acquaintance  was  near,  he  emerged  with 


THE   TOTjNG   STEP-MOTHEK.  1Y 

Albinia  from  the  gate,  and  crossed  the  road  as  the  chime 
of  the  bells  changed. 

'  We  are  late/  he  said.  '  You  will  prefer  the  speed- 
iest way,  thought  it  is  somewhat  steep.' 

The  most  private  way,  Albinia  understood,  and  could 
also  perceive  that  the  girls  would  have  liked  the  street 
which  sloped  up  the  hill,  and  thought  the  lilac  and  green 
insulted  by  being  conducted  up  the  steep,  irregular,  and 
not  very  clean  bye-lane  that  led  directly  up  the  ascent, 
between  houses,  some  meanly  modern,  some  pictu- 
resquely ancient,  with  stone  steps  outside  to  the  upper 
story,  but  all  with  far  too  much  of  pig-stye  about  them 
for  beauty  or  fragrance.  Lucy  held  up  her  skirts,  and 
daintily  picked  her  way,  and  Albinia  looked  with  kindly 
eyes  at  the  doors  and  windows,  secretly  wondering  what 
friends  she  should  find  there. 

The  lane  ended  in  a  long  flight  of  more  than  a  hun- 
dred shallow  steps  cut  out  in  the  soft  stone  of  the  hill, 
with  landing-places  here  and  there,  whence  views  were 
seen  of  the  rich  meadow-landscape  beyond,  with  villages, 
orchards,  and  farms,  and  the  blue  winding  river  Baye  in 
the  midst,  woods  rising  on  the  opposite  side  under  the 
soft  haze  of  distance.  On  the  other  side  the  wall  of  rock 
was  bordered  by  gardens  with  streamers  of  ivy  or  peri- 
winkle here  and  there  hanging  down. 

The  ascent  ended  in  an  old-fashioned  stone  stile  ;  and 
here  Sophy,  standing  on  the  step,  proclaimed,  with  unne- 
cessary loudness,  that  Mr.  Dusautoy  was  carrying  Mrs. 
Dusautoy  across  the  churchyard.  This  had  the  effect  of 
making  a  pause,  but  Albinia  saw  the  rector,  a  tall,  pow- 
erful man,  rather  supporting,  than  actually  carrying,-  a 
little  fragile  form  to  the  low-browed  door  leading  into  the 
chancel  on  the  north  side.  The  church  was  handsome, 
though  in  the  late  style,  and  a  good  deal  misused  by 
eighteenth-century  taste  ;  and  Albinia  wTas  full  of  admira- 
tion as   Mr.    Kendal    conducted   her  along   the   flagged 

,  O  DO 

path. 

She  was  rather  dismayed  to  find  herself  mounting  the 
gallery  stairs,  and  to  emerge  into  a  well-cushioned  abode, 
with  the  shield-bearing  angel  of  the  corbel  of  an  arch  all 


18  THE  YOUNG  STEP-MOTHEE. 

to  herself,  and  a  very  good  view  of  the  cobwebs  over  Mr. 
Dusautoy's  sounding-board.  It  seemed  to  suit  all  par- 
ties, however,  for*  Lucy  and  Sophia  took  possession  of  the 
forefront,  and  their  father  had  the  inmost  corner,  where 
certainly  nobody  could  see  him. 

Just  opposite  to  Albinia  was  a  mural  tablet,  on  which 
she  read  what  revealed  to  her  more  of  the  sorrows  of  her 
household  than  she  had  guessed  before  : — 

i  To  the  memory  of  Lucy,  the  beloved  wife  of  Edmund 
Kendal.     Died  February  18th,  1845,  aged  35  years. 

Edmund  Meadows  Kendal,  born  January  20th,  1834. 
Died  February  10th,  1845. 

Maria  Kendal,  born  September  5th,  1840.  Died  Sep- 
tember 14th,  1840. 

Sarah  Anne  Kendal,  born  October  3d,  1841.  Died 
November  20th,  1843. 

John  Augustus  Kendal,  born  January  4th,  1842. 
Died  July  6th,  1842. 

Anne  Maria  Kendal,  born  June  12th,  1844.  Died 
June  19th,  1844.' 

Then  followed,  in  the  original  Greek,  the  words,  '  Be- 
cause I  live,  ye  shall  live  also.' 

Four  infants !  how  many  hopes  laid  here  !  All  the 
English-born  children  of  the  family  had  died  in  their  cra- 
dles, and  not  only  did  compassion  for  the  past  affect  Al- 
binia, as  she  thought  of  her  husband's  world  of  hidden 
grief,  but  a  shudder  for  the  future  came  over  her,  as  she 
remembered  having  read  that  such  mortality  is  a  test  of 
the  healthiness  of  a  locality.  What  could  she  think  of 
Willow  Lawn  ?  It  was  with  a  strong  effort  that  she 
brought  her  attention  back  to  Him  who  controlleth  the 
sickness  that  destroyeth  at  noon-day. 

But  Mr.  Dusautoy's  deep,  powerful  intonations  roused 
her  wandering  thoughts,  and  she  was  calmed  and  reas- 
sured by  the  holy  Feast,  in  which  she  joined  with  her 
husband. 

Mr.  Kendal's  fine  face  was  calm  and  placid,  as  best 
she  loved  to  look  upon  it,  when  they  came  out  of  church, 
and  she  was  too  happy  to  disturb  the  quiet  by  one  word. 
Lively  and  animated  as  she  was,  there  was  a  sort  of  re- 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  19 

pose  and  enjoyment  in  the  species  of  respect  exacted  by 
his  grave  silent  demeanour. 

It*  this  could  only  have  lasted  longer !  but  he  was  tak- 
ing her  along  an  irregular  street,  and  too  soon  she  saw  a 
slight  colour  flit  across  his  cheek,  and  his  eyebrows  con- 
tract, as  he  unlatched  a  green  door  in  a  high  wall,  and 
entered  a  little  flagged  court,  decorated  by  a  stand  des- 
tined for  flowers. 

Albinia  caught  the  blush,  and  felt  more  bashful  than 
she  had  believed  was  in  her  nature,  but  she  had  a  warm- 
hearted determination  that  she  would  work  down  preju- 
dices, and  like  and  be  liked  by  all  that  concerned  him 
and  his  children.  So  she  smiled  at  him,  and  went  bravely 
on  into  the  matted  hall  and  up  the  narrow  stairs,  and 
made  a  laughing  sign  when  he  looked  back  at  her  ere  he 
tapped  at  the  sitting-room  door. 

It  was  opened  from  within  before  he  could  turn  the 
handle ;  and  a  shrill  voice,  exaggerating  those  of  the  girls, 
showered  welcomes  with  such  rapidity,  that  Albinia  was 
seated  at  the  table,  and  had  been  helped  to  cold  chicken, 
before  she  could  look  round,  or  make  much  answer  to 
reiterations  of  '  so  very  kind.' 

It  was  a  small  room,  loaded  with  knicknacks  and  cush- 
ions, like  a  repository  of  every  species  of  female  orna- 
mental handiwork  in  vogue  for  the  last  half  century,  and 
the  luncheon-tray  in  the  middle  of  all,  ready  for  six  peo- 
ple, for  the  two  girls  were  there,  and  though  Mr.  Kendal 
stood  up  by  the  fire,  and  would  not  eat,  he  and  his  black 
image,  reflected  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  looking- 
glass  and  in  the  little  round  mirror,  seemed  to  take  up 
more  room  than  if  he  had  been  seated. 

Mrs.  Meadows  was  slight,  shrunken,  and  gentle-look- 
ing, with  a  sw^eet  tone  in  her  voice,  great  softness  of  man- 
ner, and  pretty  blue  eyes.  Albinia  only  wished  that  she 
had  worn  mourning,  it  w^ould  have  been  so  much  more 
becoming  than  bright  colours  ;  but  that  was  soon  over- 
looked in  gratitude  for  her  affectionate  reception,  and  in 
the  warmth  of  feeling  excited  by  her  evident  fondness 
and  solicitude  for  Mr.  Kendal. 

Miss  Meadows  was  gaily  dressed  in  youthful  fashion, 


20  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

such  as  evidently  had  set  her  off  to  advantage  when  she 
had  been  a  bright,  dark,  handsome  girl ;  but  her  hair  was 
thin,  her  cheeks  haggard,  the  colour  hardened,  and  her 
forty  years  apparent,  above  all,  in  an  uncomfortable  fur- 
row on  the  brow  and  round  the  mouth  ;  her  voice  had  a 
sharp  distressed  tone  that  grated  even  in  her  lowest  key, 
and  though  she  did  not  stammer,  she  could  never  finish  a 
sentence,  but  made  half-a-dozen  disjointed  commencements 
whenever  she  spoke.  Albinia  pitied  her,  and  thought  her 
nervous,  for  she  was  painfully  assiduous  in  waiting  on 
every  one,  scarcely  sitting  down  for  a  minute  before  she 
was  sure  that  pepper,  or  pickle,  or  new  bread,  or  stale 
bread,  or  something  was  wanted,  and  squeezing  round  the 
table  to  help  some  one,  or  to  ring  the  bell  every  third 
minute,  and  all  in  a  dress  that  had  a  teazing  stiff  silken 
rustle.  She  offered  Mr.  Kendal  everything  in  the  shape 
of  food,  till  he  purchased  peace  by  submitting  to  take  a 
hard  biscuit ;  while  Albinia  was  not  allowed  her  glass  of 
water  till  all  manner  of  wines,  foreign  and  domestic,  had 
been  tried  upon  her  in  vain. 

Conversation  was  not  easy.  Gilbert  was  inquired 
after,  and  his  aunt  spoke  in  her  shrill,  injured  note,  as  she 
declared  that  she  had  done  her  utmost  to  persuade  him  to 
have  the  tooth  extracted,  and  began  a  history  of  what  the 
dentist  ought  to  have  done  five  years  ago. 

His  grandmother  softly  pitied  him,  saying  poor  little 
Gibbie  was  such  a  delicate  boy,  and  required  such  care- 
ful treatment ;  and  when  Albinia  hoped  that  he  was  out- 
growing his  ill-health,  she  was  amused  to  find  that  de- 
sponding compassion  would  have  been  more  pleasing. 

There  had  been  a  transaction  about  a  servant  in  her 
behalf:  and  Miss  Meadows  insisted  on  hunting  up  a  note, 
searching  all  about  the  room,  and  making  her  mother  and 
Sophy  move  from  the  front  of  two  table-drawers,  a  dis- 
turbance which  Sophy  did  not  take  with  such  placid  looks 
as  did  her  grandmother. 

The  name  of  the  maid  was  Eweretta  Dobson,  at  which 
there  was  a  general  exclamation. 

1 1  wonder  what  is  the  history  of  the  name  1 '  said  Al- 
binia;   'it   sounds   like   nothing  but   the  diminutive   of 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-ilOTHEE.  21 

ewer.     I  hope  she  will  not  be  the  little  pitcher  with  long 
ears.' 

Mr.  Kendal  looked  as  much  amused  as  he  ever  did, 
but  no  one  else  gave  the  least  token  of  so  much  as  know- 
ing what  she  meant,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  mak- 
ing a  foolish  attempt  at  wit. 

"  '  You  need  not  call  her  so,'  was  all  that  Mrs.  Meadows 
said. 

'  I  do  not  like  calling  servants  by  anything  but  their 
true  names,'  answered  Albinia  ;  '  it  does  not  seem  to  me 
treating  them  with  proper  respect  to  change  their  names, 
as  if  we  thought  them  too  good  for  them.  It  is  using 
them  like  slaves.' 

Lucy  exclaimed,  '  Why !  grandmamma's  Betty  is 
really  named  Philadelphia.' 

Albinia  laughed,  but  was  disconcerted  by  finding  that 
she  had  really  given  annoyance.  '  Pbeg  your  pardon,' 
she  said.  '  It  is  only  a  fancy  of  my  own.  I  am  afraid 
that  I  have  many  fancies  for  my  friends  to  bear  with. 
You  see  I  have  so  fine  a  name  of  my  own,  that  I  have  a 
fellow-feeling  for  those  under  the  same  affliction  ;  and  I 
believe  some  servants  like  an  alias  rather  than  be  teased 
for  their  finery,  so  I  shall  give  Miss  Eweretta  her  choice 
between  that  and  her  surname.' 

The  old  lady  looked  good-natured,  and  that  matter 
blew  over ;  but  Miss  Meadows  fell  into  another  compli- 
cation of  pros  and  cons  about  writing  for  the  woman's 
character,  looking  miserably  harassed  whether  she  would 
write,  or  Mrs.  Kendal,  before  she  had  been  called  upon. 

Albinia  supposed  that  Mrs.  Wolfe  might  call  in  the 
course  of  the  week ;  but  this  Miss  Meadows  did  not  know, 
and  she  embarked  in  so  many  half  speeches,  and  looked 
so  mysterious  and  significant  at  her  mother,  that  Albinia 
began  to  suspect  that  some  dreadful  truth  was  behind. 

'  Perhaps,'  said  the  old  lady,  '  perhaps  Mrs.  Kendal 
might  make  it  understood  through  you,  my  dear  Maria, 
that  she  is  ready  to  receive  visits.' 

'  I  suppose  they  must  be  ! '  said  Albinia. 

'  You  see,  my  dear,  people  would  be  most  happy,  but 


22  THE   YOUXG    STEP-MOTHER. 

they  do  not  know  whether  you  have  arrived.  You  have 
not  appeared  at  church,  as  I  may  say.' 

'  Indeed,'  said  Albinia,  much  diverted  by  her  new 
discoveries  in  the  realms  of  etiquette,  '  I  was  rather  in  a 
cupboard,  I  must  allow.  Ought  we  to  have  sailed  up  the 
aisle  in  state  in  the  Grandison  pattern  ?  Are  you  ready  ? ' 
and  she  glanced  up  at  her  husband,  but  he  only  half 
heard. 

'  No,'  said  Miss  Meadows,  fretfully ;  '  but  you  have  not 
appeared  as  a  bride.  The  straw  bonnet — you  see  people 
cannot  tell  whether  you  are  not  incog,  as  yet — ' 

To  refrain  from  laughing  was  impossible.  '  My  tarn 
cap,'  she  exclaimed  ;  '1  am  invisible  in  it !  What  shall 
I  do  ?  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  producible,  for  indeed  it  is 
my  very  best,  my  veritable  wedding-bonnet ! ' 

Lucy  looked  as  if  she  thought  it  not  worth  while  to 
be  married  for  no  better  a  bonnet  than  that. 

'  Absurdity  ! '  said  Mr.  Kendal. 

If  he  would  but  have  given  a  good  hearty  laugh, 
thought  Albinia,  what  a  consolation  it  would  be  !  but  she 
considered  herself  to  have  had  a  lesson  against  laughing 
in  that  house,  and  was  very  glad  when  he  proposed  going 
home.  He  took  a  kind,  affectionate  leave  of  the  old  lady, 
who  again  looked  fondly  in  his  face,  and  rejoiced  in  his 
having  recovered  his  looks. 

As  they  arrived  at  home,  Lucy  announced  that  she 
was  just  going  to  speak  to  Lizzie  Osborn,  and  Sophy  ran 
after  her  to  a  house  of  about  the  same  degree  as  their 
own,  but  dignified  as  Mount  Lodge,  because  it  stood  on 
the  hill  side  of  the  street,  while  Mr.  Kendal's  house  was 
for  more  gentility  called  '  Willow  Lawn.'  Gilbert  was 
not  to  be  found ;  but  at  four  o'clock  the  whole  party  met 
at  dinner,  before  the  evening  service. 

Gilbert  could  eat  little,  and  on  going  back  to  the  fire 
to  roast  his  cheek  instead  of  going  to  church,  was  told  by 
his  father,  '  I  cannot  have  this  going  on.  You  must  go  to 
Mr.  Bowles  directly  after  breakfast  to  morrow,  have  the 
tooth  drawn,  and  then  go  on  to  Mr.  Salsted's.' 

The  tone  was  one  that  admitted  of  no  rebellion.  If 
Mr.  Kendal  interfered  little,  his  authority  was  absolute 


THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  23 

where  he  did  interfere,  and  Albinia  could  only  speak  a 
few  kind  words  of  encouragement ;  but  the  boy  was 
vexed  and  moody,  seemed  half  asleep  when  they  came 
home,  and  went  to  bed  as  soon  as  tea  was  over. 

Sophy  went  to  bed  too,  Mr.  Kendal  went  to  his 
study,  and  Albinia,  after  this  day  of  novelty  and  excite- 
ment, drew  her  chair  to  the  fire,  and  as  Lucy  was  hang- 
ing wearily  about,  called  her  to  her  side,  and  made  her 
talk,  believing  that  there  was  more  use  in  studying  the 
girl's  character  than  even  in  suggesting  some  occupation, 
though  that  was  apparently  the  great  want  of  the  whole 
family  on  Sunday. 

Lucy's  first  confidence  was  that  Gilbert  had  not  been 
out  alone,  but  with  that  Archibald  Tritton.  Mr.  Tritton 
had  a  great  farm,  and  was  a  sort  of  gentleman,  and  Gil- 
bert was  always  after  that  Archy.  She  thought  it '  very 
undesirable,'  and  Aunt  Maria  had  talked  to  him  about  it, 
but  he  never  listened  to  Aunt  Maria. 

Albinia  privately  thought  that  it  must  be  a  severe 
penance  to  listen  to  Aunt  Maria,  and  took  Gilbert's  part. 
She  supposed  that  he  must  be  very  solitary  ;  it  must  be 
a  melancholy  thing  to  be  a  twin  left  alone. 

1  And  Edmund,  dear  Edmund,  was  always  so  kind  and 
so  fond  of  Gilbert ! '  said  Lucy.  '  You  would  not  have 
thought  they  were  twins,  Edmund  was  so  much  the  tall- 
est and  strongest.  It  seemed  so  odd  that  Gilbert  should 
have  got  over  it,  when  he  did  not.  Should  you  like  to 
hear  all  about  it,  mamma  ? ' 

It  was  Albinia's  great  wish  to  lift  that  dark  veil,  and 
Lucy  began,  with  as  much  seriousness  and  sadness  as 
could  co-exist  with  the  satisfaction  and  importance  of  hav- 
ing to  give  such  a  narration,  and  exciting  emotion  and 
pity.  It  was  remarkable  how  she  managed  to  make  her- 
self the  heroine  of  the  story,  though  she  had  been  sent 
out  of  the  house,  and  had  escaped  the  infection.  She 
spoke  in  phrases  that  showed  that  she  had  so  often  told  the 
story  as  to  have  a  set  form,  caught  from  her  elders,  but 
still  it  had  a  deep  and  intrinsic  interest  for  the  bride,  that 
made  her  sit  gazing  into  the  fire,  pressing  Lucy's  hand, 
and  now  and  then  sighing  and  shuddering  slightly  as  she 


24  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

heard  how  there  had  been  a  bad  fever  prevailing  in  that 
lower  part  of  the  town,  and  how  the  two  boys  were  both 
unwell  one  damp,  hot  autumn  morning,  and  Lucy  dwelt 
on  the  escape  it  had  been  that  she  had  not  kissed  them 
before  going  to  school.  Sophy  had  sickened  the  same 
day,  and  after  the  tedious  three  weeks,  when  father  and 
mother  were  spent  with  attendance  on  the  three,  Ed- 
mund, after  long  delirium,  had  suddenly  sunk,  just  as 
they  had  hopes  of  him  ;  and  the  same  message  that  told 
Lucy  of  her  brother's  death,  told  her  of  the  severe  illness 
of  both  parents. 

The  disease  had  done  the  work  rapidly  on  the  moth- 
er's exhausted  frame,  and  she  was  buried  a  week  after  her 
boy.  Lucy  had  seen  the  procession  from  the  window, 
and  thought  it  necessary  to  tell  how  she  had  cried. 

Mr.  Kendal's  had  been  a  long  illness  ;  the  first  knowl- 
edge of  his  loss  had  caused  a  relapse,  and  his  recovery 
had  long  been  doubtful.  As  soon  as  the  children  were 
able  to  move,  they  were  sent  with  Miss  Meadows  to 
Eamsgate,  and  Lucy  had  joined  them  there. 

'  The  day  before  I  went,  I  saw  papa,'  she  said.  '  I  had 
gone  home  for  some  things  that  I  was  to  take,  and  his 
room  door  was  open,  so  he  saw  me  on  the  stairs,  and 
called  me,  for  there  was  no  fear  of  infection  then.  Oh,  he 
was  so  changed  !  his  hair  all  cut  off,  and  his  cheeks  hol- 
low, and  he  was  quite  trembling,  as  he  lay  back  on  pil- 
lows in  the  great  arm-chair.  You  can't  think  what  a 
shock  it  was  to  me  to  see  him  in  such  a  state.  He  held 
out  his  arms,  and  I  flung  mine  round  his  neck,  and  sobbed 
and  cried.  And  he  just  said,  so  faintly,  "  Take  her  away, 
Maria,  I  camiot  bear  it."  I  assure  you  I  was  quite  hys- 
terical.' 

'  You  must  have  wished  for  more  self-command,'  said 
Albinia,  disturbed  by  Lucy's  evident  pleasure  in  having 
made  a  scene. 

'  Oh,  but  it  was  such  a  shock,  and  such  a  thing  to  see 
the  house  all  empty  and  forlorn,  with  the  windows  open, 
and  everything  so  still !  Miss  Belmarche  cried  too,  and 
said  she  did  not  wonder  my  feelings  overcame  me,  and 
she  did  not  see  papa.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-M OTHER.  25 

*  Ah  !  Lucy,'  said  Albinia,  fervently,  '  how  we  must 
try  to  make  him  happy  after  all  that  he  has  gone 
through  ! ' 

1  That  is  what  grandmamma  said  when  she  got  his 
letter.  "I  would  be  glad  of  anything,"  she  said,  "that 
would  bring  back  a  smile  to  him."  And  Aunt  Maria  said 
she  had  done  her  best  for  him,  but  he  must  consult  his 
own  happiness  ;  and  so  I  say.  When  people  talk  to  me, 
I  say  that  papa  is  quite  at  liberty  to  consult  his  own  hap- 
piness.' 

'  Thank  you.' 

Lucy  did  not  understand  the  tone,  and  went  on  pa- 
tronizing. '  And  if  they  say  you  look  younger  than  they 
expected,  I  don't  object  to  that  at  all.  I  had  rather  you 
were  not  as  old  as  Aunt  Maria,  or  Miss  Belmarche.' 

'  Who  thinks  me  so  young  %  ' 

I  Oh  !  Aunt  Maria  and  grandmamma,  and  Mrs.  Os- 
born,  and  all ;  but  I  don't  mind  that,  it  is  only  Sophy 
who  says  you  look  like  a  girl.  Aunt  Maria  says  Sophy 
has  an  unmanageable  temper.' 

'  Don't  you  think  you  can  let  me  find  that  out  for 
myself?' 

I I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  tell  you  about  every- 
body.' 

'  Ah  !  but  tell  me  of  the  good  in  your  brother  and 
sister.' 

'  I  don't  know  how,'  said  Lucy.  '  Gilbert  is  so  tire- 
some, and  so  is  Sophy.  I  heard  Mary  telling  Jane,  "  I'm 
sure  the  new  missus  will  have  a  heavy  handful  of  those 
two."  ' 

1  And  what  of  yourself? '  said  Albinia. 

1  Oh  !  I  don't  know,'  said  Lucy,  modestly. 

Mr.  Kendal  came  in,  and  as  Albinia  looked  at  his 
pensive  brow,  she  was  oppressed  by  the  thought  of  his 
sufferings  in  that  dreary  convalescence.  At  night,  when 
she  looked  from  her  window,  the  fog  hung  white,  like 
mildew  over  the  pond,  and  she  could  not  reason  herself 
out  of  a  spectral  haunting  fancy  that  sickness  lurked  in  the 
heavy,  misty  atmosphere.  She  dreamt  of  it  and  the  four 
babies,  started,  awoke,  and  had  to  recall  all  her  higher 
2 


26  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

trust  to  enable  her  vigour  to  chase  off  the  oppressive 
imagination. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Fog  greeted  Mrs.  Kendal's  eyes  as  she  rose,  and  she 
resolved  to  make  an  attack  on  the  pond  without  loss  of 
time.  But  Mr.  Kendal  was  absorbed  nearly  all  breakfast 
time  in  a  letter  from  India,  containing  a  scrap  in  some 
uncouth  character.  As  he  finished  his  last  cup  of  tea,  he 
looked  up  and  said,  '  A  letter  from  my  old  friend  Pen- 
rose, of  Bombay — an  inscription  in  the  Salsette  caves.' 

'  Have  you  seen  the  Salsette  caves  ] ' 

<  Yes.' 

She  was  longing  to  hear  about  them,  but  his  horse 
was  announced. 

'  You  said  you  would  be  engaged  in  the  morning  while 
I  ride  out,  Albinia  1 '  he  said ;  '  I  shall  return  before 
luncheon.  Gilbert,  you  had  better  go  at  once  to  Mr. 
Bowles.  I  shall  order  your  pony  to  be  ready  when  you 
come  back.' 

There  was  not  a  word  of  remonstrance,  though  the 
boy  looked  very  disconsolate,  and  began  to  murmur  the 
moment  his  father  had  gone.  Albinia,  who  had  regarded 
protection  at  a  dentist's  one  of  the  offices  of  the  head  of  a 
family,  though  dismayed  at  the  task,  told  Gilbert  that  she 
would  go  with  him  in  a  moment.  The  girls  exclaimed 
that  no  one  thought  of  going  with  him  ;  and  fearing  she 
had  put  an  affront  on  his  manliness,  she  asked  what  he 
would  like,  but  could  get  no  answer,  only  when  Lucy 
scolded  him  for  lingering,  he  said,  '  I  thought  she  was 
going  with  me.' 

1  Amiable,'  thought  Albinia,  as  she  ran  up  to  put  on 
her  bonnet ;  '  but  I  suppose  toothache  puts  people  out  of 
the  pale  of  civilization.  And  if  he  is  thankless,  is  not 
that  treating  me  more  like  a  mother  ?  ' 

Perhaps  he  had  accepted  her  escort  in  hopes  of  defer- 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  27 

ring  the  evil  hour,  for  he  seemed  discomfited  to  see  her  so 
quickly  ready,  and  not  grateful  to  his  sisters,  who  hurried 
them  by  saying  that  Mr.  Bowles  would  be  gone  out  upon 
his  rounds. 

Mr.  Bowles  was  amazed  at  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Kendal, 
and  so  elaborate  in  compliments  and  assurances  that  Mrs. 
Bowles  would  do  herself  the  honour  of  calling,  that  Al- 
binia, pitying  Gilbert,  called  his  attention  back. 

With  him  the  apothecary  was  peremptory  and  face- 
tious. He  '  had  expected  that  he  should  soon  see  him 
after  his  papa's  return  ! '  And  with  a  ;  soon  be  over,'  he 
set  him  down,  and  Albinia  bravely  stood  a  desperate 
wringing  of  her  hand  at  the  tug  of  war.  She  wTas  glad 
she  had  come,  for  the  boy  suffered  a  good  deal,  and  was 
faint,  and  Mr.  Bowles  pronounced  his  mouth  in  no  state 
for  a  ride  to  Tremblam. 

*  I  must  go,'  said  Gilbert,  as  they  walked  home ;  '  I 
wish  papa  would  listen  to  anything.' 

1  He  would  not  wish  you  to  hurt  yourself.' 

*  When  papa  says  a  thing — '  began  Gilbert. 

*  Well,  Gilbert,  you  are  quite  right,  and  I  hope  you 
don't  think  I  mean  to  teach  you  disobedience.  But  I  do 
desire  you,  on  my  own  responsibility,  not  to  go  and  catch 
an  inflammation  in  your  jaw.     I'll  undertake  papa.' 

Gilbert  at  once  became  quite  another  creature.  He 
discoursed  so  much,  that  she  had  to  make  him  restore  the 
handkerchief  to  his  mouth ;  he  held  open  the  gate,  showed 
her  a  shoal  of  minnows,  and  tried  to  persuade  her  to  come 
round  the  garden,  before  going  in,  but  she  clapped  her 
hands  at  him,  and  hunted  him  back  into  the  warm  room, 
much  impressed  and  delighted  by  his  implicit  obedience 
to  his  father.  With  Lucy  and  Sophy,  his  remaining 
seemed  likewise  to  make  a  great  sensation  ;  they  looked 
at  Mrs.  Kendal  and  whispered,  and  were  evidently  curious 
as  to  the  result  of  her  audacity.  Albinia,  who  had  grown 
up  with  her  brother  Maurice  and  cousin  Frederick,  was 
more  used  to  boys  than  to  girls,  and  was  already  more  at 
ease  with  her  son  than  her  daughters. 

Gilbert  lent  a  ready  hand  with  hammer  and  chisel, 
and  boxes  were  opened,  to  the  great  delight  and  admira- 


28  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

tion  of  the  girls.  They  were  all  very  happy  and  busy 
setting  things  to  rights,  but  Albinia  was  in  difficulty  how 
to  bestow  her  books.  There  was  an  unaccountable  scarc- 
ity both  of  books  and  book-cases ;  none  were  to  be  seen 
except  that,  in  a  chiffoniere  in  the  drawing-room,  there 
was  a  row  in  gilded  bindings,  chiefly  Pope,  Gray,  and  the 
like ;  and  one  which  Albinia  took  out  had  pages  which 
stuck  together,  a  little  pale  blue  string,  faded  at  the  end, 
and  in  the  garlanded  fly-leaf  the  inscription,  '  To  Miss 
Lucy  Meadows,  the  reward  of  good  conduct,  December 
20th,  1822.'  The  book  seemed  rather  surprised  at  being 
opened,  and  Albinia  let  it  close  itself  as  Lucy  said, 
'  Those  are  poor  mamma's  books ;  all  the  others  are  in 
the  study.     Come  in,  and  I'll  show  you.' 

She  threw  open  the  door,  and  Albinia  entered.  The 
study  was  shaded  with  a  mass  of  laurels  that  kept  out  the 
sun,  and  made  it  look  chill  and  sad,  and  the  air  in  it  was 
close.  The  round  library-table  was  loaded  with  desks, 
pocket-books,  and  papers ;  the  mantel-piece  was  covered 
with  letters,  and  book-shelves  mounted  to  the  ceiling, 
filled  with  the  learned  and  the  poetical  of  new  and  old 
times. 

Over  the  fireplace  hung  what  it  needed  not  Lucy's 
whisper  to  point  out,  as  '  Poor  mamma's  picture.'  It 
represented  a  very  pretty  girl,  with  dark  eyes,  brilliant 
colour,  and  small  cherry  mouth,  painted  in  the  exagger- 
ated style  usually  called  '  ridiculously  like.' 

Albinia's  first  feeling  was  that  there  was  nothing  in 
herself  that  could  atone  for  the  loss  of  so  fair  a  creature, 
and  the  thought  became  more  oppressive  as  she  looked  at 
a  niche  in  the  wall,  holding  a  carved  sandal-wood  work- 
box,  with  a  silver  watch  lying  on  it. 

'  Poor  Edmund's  watch,'  said  Lucy.  '  It  was  given  to 
him  for  a  reward  just  before  he  was  ill.' 

Albinia  tried  to  recover  composure  by  reading  the 
titles  of  the  books.  Suddenly,  Lucy  started  and  ex- 
claimed, '  Come  away.     There  he  is  ! ' 

'  AVhy  come  away  ? '  said  Albinia. 

:  I  would  not  have  him  find  me  there  for  all  the 
world.'       In  all  her  vexation  and  dismay,  Albinia  could 


THE  YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  29 

not  help  thinking  of  Bluebeard's  closet.  Her  inclination 
was  to  stay  where  she  was,  and  take  her  chance  of  losing 
her  head,  yet  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  bear  to  be  found 
invading  a  sanctuary  of  past  recollections,  and  was  re- 
lieved to  find  that  it  was  a  false  alarm,  though  not  re- 
lieved by  the  announcement  that  Admiral  and  Mrs. 
Osborn  and  the  Miss  Osborns  were  in  the  drawing-room. 

1  Before  luncheon — too  bad  ! '  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
hurried  upstairs  to  wash  off  the  dust  of  unpacking. 

Ere  she  could  hurry  down  there  was  another  inunda- 
tion streaming  across  the  hall,  Mrs.  Drury  and  three 
Miss  Drurys,  who,  as  she  remembered,  when  they  began 
to  kiss  her,  were  some  kind  of  cousins. 

There  was  talk,  but  Albinia  could  not  give  entire  at- 
tention ;  she  was  watching  for  Mr.  Kendal's  return,  that 
she  might  guard  Gilbert  from  his  displeasure,  and  the 
instant  she  heard  him,  she  sprang  up,  and  flew  into  the 
hall.  He  could  not  help  brightening  at  the  eager  wel- 
come, but  when  she  told  him  of  Mr.  Bowles'  opinion,  he 
looked  graver,  and  said,  '  I  fear  you  must  not  always 
attach  credit  to  all  Gilbert's  reports.' 

'  Mr.  Bowles  told  me  himself  that  he  must  run  no  risk 
of  inflammation.' 

I  You  saw  Mr.  Bowles  ! ' 

I I  went  with  Gilbert.' 

i  You  !  I  never  thought  of  your  imposing  so  unpleas- 
ant a  task  on  yourself.  I  fear  the  boy  has  been  trespass- 
ing on  your  kindness.' 

'  No,  indeed,  he  never  asked  me,  but — '  with  a  sort  of 
laugh  to  hide  the  warmth  excited  by  his  pleased,  grateful 
look,  '  I  thought  it  all  in  the  day's  work,  only  natural — ' 

She  would  have  given  anything  to  have  had  time  to 
enjoy  his  epanchement  de  cccur  at  those  words,  but  she  was 
obliged  to  add,  '  Alas  !  there's  all  the  world  in  the  draw- 
ing-room ! '  ' 

'  Who  ? ' 

1  Osborns  and  Drurys.' 

'  Do  you  want  me  ? ' 

'  I  ran  away  on  the  plea  of  calling  you. 

*  I'll  never  do  so  again,'  was  her  inward  addition,  as 


30  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

his  countenance  settled  into  the  accustomed  fixed  look  of 
abstraction,  and  as  an  unwilling  victim,  he  entered  the 
room  with  her,  and  the  visitors  were  '  dreadful  enough ' 
to  congratulate  him. 

Albinia  knew  that  it  must  be  so  unpleasant  to  him, 
that  she  blushed  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and  could 
not  look  at  anybody. 

When  she  recovered,  the  first  comers  were  taking 
leave,  but  the  second  set  stayed  on  and  on  till  past  lun- 
cheon-time, and  far  past  her  patience,  before  the  room 
was  at  last  cleared. 

Gilbert  hurried  in,  and  was  received  by  his  father 
with,  '  You  are  very  much  obliged  to  her  ? ' 

'  Indeed  I  am,'  said  Gilbert,  in  a  winning,  pleasant 
manner. 

1 1  don't  want  you  to  be,'  said  Albinia,  affectionately 
laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  '  And  nowtfor  luncheon 
— I  pitied  you,  poor  fellow ;  I  thought  you  must  have 
been  famished.' 

'  Anything  not  to  have  all  the  Drurys  at  luncheon,' 
said  Gilbert,  confidentially  ;  '  I  had  begun  to  wish  myself 
at  Tremblam.' 

'  By  the  bye,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  waking  as  he  sat  down 
at  the  bottom  of  the  table, '  how  wras  it  that  the  Drurys 
did  not  stay  to  luncheon  ? ' 

1  Was  that  what  they  were  waiting  for  ? '  exclaimed 
Albinia.     '  Poor  people,  I  had  no  notion  of  that.' 

'  They  do  have  luncheon  here  in  general,'  said  Mr. 
Kendal,  as  if  not  knowing  exactly  how  it  came  to  pass. 

1  O  yes,'  said  Lucy  ;  '  Sarah  Anne  asked  me  whether 
we  ate  wedding-cake  every  day.' 

'  Poor  Miss  Sarah  Anna ! '  said  Albinia,  laughing. 
1  But  one  cannot  help  feeling  inhospitable  when  people 
come  so  unconscionably  early,  and  cut  up  all  one's  morn- 
ing.' * 

The  door  was  again  besieged  by  visitors,  just  as  they 
were  all  going  out  to  make  the  round  of  the  garden ;  and 
it  was  not  till  half-past  four  that  the  succession  ceased, 
and  Albinia  was  left  to  breathe  freely,  and  remember  how 
often  Maurice  had  called  her  to  order  for  intolerance  of 
morning  calls. 


THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER,  31 

And  not  the  only  people  I  cared  to  see,'  she  said, 
'  the  Dusautoys  and  Nugents.  But  they  have  too  much 
mercy  to  call  the  first  day.' 

Mr.  Kendal  looked  as  if  his  instinct  were  drawing  him 
study-wards,  but  Albinia  hung  on  his  arm,  and  made  him 
come  into  the  garden.  Though  devoid  of  Winifred's  gar- 
dening tastes,  she  was  dismayed  at  the  untended  look  of 
the  flower-beds.  The  laurels  were  too  high,  and  seemed 
to  choke  the  narrow  space,  and  the  turf  owed  its  verdant 
appearance  to  damp  moss.  She  had  made  but  few  steps 
before  the  water  squished  under  her  feet,  and  impelled  her 
to  exclaim,  '  What  a  pity  this  pond  should  not  be  filled 
up!' 

'  Filled  up  !— ' 

'  Yes,  it  would  be  so  much  less  damp.  One  might 
drain  it  off  into  the  river,  and  then  we  should  get  rid  of 
the  fog.' 

And  she  began  actively  to  demonstrate  the  convenient 
slope,  and  the  beautiful  flower-bed  that  might  be  made  in 
its  place.  Mr.  Kendal  answered  with  a  few  assenting 
sounds  and  complacent  looks,  and  Albinia,  accustomed  to 
a  brother  with  whom  to  assent  was  to  act,  believed  the 
matter  was  in  train,  and  that  pond  and  fever  would  be 
annihilated. 

The  garden  opened  into  a  meadow  with  a  causeway 
leading  to  a  canal  bank,  where  there  was  a  promising 
country  walk,  but  the  cruel  visitors  had  left  no  time  for 
exploring,  and  Albinia  had  to  return  home  and  hurry  up 
her  arrangements  before  there  was  space  to  turn  round 
in  her  room — even  then  it  was  not  what  Winifred  could 
have  seen  without  making  a  face. 

Mr.  Kendal  had  read  aloud  to  his  wife  in  the  evening 
during  the  stay  at  the  sea-side,  and  she  was'  anxious  not 
to  let  the  habit  drop.  He  liked  it,  and  read  beautifully, 
and  she  thought  it  good  for  the  children.  She  therefore 
begged  him  to  read,  catching  him  on  the  way  to  his 
study,  and  coaxing  him  to  stay  no  longer  than  to  find 
a  book.  lie  brought  Schlegei's  Philosophy  of  History. 
She  feared  that  it  was  above  the  young  ones,  but  it  Mas 
delightful  to  herself,  and  the  custom  had  better  be  estab- 


f 


32  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

lished  before  it  was  perilled  by  attempts  to  adapt  it  to 
the  children.  Lucy  and  Sophy  seemed  astonished  and 
displeased,  and  their  whispers  had  to  be  silenced  ;  Gilbert 
learnt  his  lessons  apart.  Albinia  rallied  her  spirits,  and 
insisted  to  herself  that  she  did  not  feel  discouraged. 

Monday  had  gone,  or  rather  Albinia  had  been  robbed 
of  it  by  visitors — now  for  a  vigorous  Tuesday.  Her  un- 
packing and  her  setting  to  rights  were  not  half  over,  but 
as  the  surface  was  habitable,  she  resolved  to  finish  at  her 
leisure,  and  sacrifice  no  more  mornings  of  study. 

So  after  she  had  lingered  at  the  door,  to  delight  Gil- 
bert by  admiring  his  pony,  she  returned  to  the  dining- 
room,  where  the  girls  were  loading  a  small  table  in  the 
window  with  piles  of  books  and  exercises,  and  Lucy  was 
standing,  looking  all  eagerness  to  show  off  her  drawings. 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  but  first  we  had  better  read.  I  have 
been  talking  to  your  papa,  and  we  have  settled  that  on 
Wednesdays  and  Fridays  we  will  go  to  church ;  but  on 
these  days  we  will  begin  by  reading  the  Psalms  and  Les- 
sons.' 

*  Oh,'  said  Lucy,  '  we  never  do  that,  except  when  we 
are  at  grandmamma's.' 

'  Pray  are  you  too  old  or  too  young  for  it  1 '  said 
Albinia. 

'  We  did  it  to  please  grandmamma,'  said  Sophy. 

'Now  you  will  do  it  to  please  me,'  said  Albinia,  '  if 
for  no  better  reason.  Fetch  your  Bibles  and  Prayer- 
books.' 

1  We  shall  never  have  time  for  our  studies,  I  assure 
you,  mamma,'  objected  Lucy. 

'  That  is  not  your  concern,'  said  Albinia,  her  spirit 
rising  at  the  girl's  opposition.     '  I  wish  for  obedience.' 

Lucy  went ;  Sophy  leant  against  the  table  like  a  post. 
Albinia  regretted  that  the  first  shot  should  have  been 
fired  for  such  a  cause,  and  sat  perplexing  herself  whether 
it  were  worse  to  give  way,  or  to  force  the  girls  to  read 
Holy  Scripture  in  such  a  mood. 

Lucy  came  flying  down  with  the  four  books  in  her 
hands,  and  began  officiously  opening  them  before  her 
sister,  and  exhorting  her  not  to  give  way  to  sullenness — 


; 


THE   YOUXG    STEP-MOTHER.  33 

she  ought  to  like  to  read  the  Bible — which  of  course  made 
Sophy  look  crosser.  The  desire  to  establish  her  author- 
ity conquered  the  scruple  about  reverence.  Albinia  set 
them  to  read,  and  suffered  for  it.  Lucy  read  flippantly  ; 
Sophy  in  the  hoarse,  dull,  dogged  voice  of  a  naughty  boy. 
She  did  not  dare  to  expostulate,  lest  she  should  exasperate 
the  tempers  that  she  had  roused. 

'  Never  mind,'  she  thought,  '  when  the  institution  is 
fixed,  they  will  be  more  amenble.' 

She  tried  a  little  examination  afterwards,  but  not  one 
answer  was  to  be  extracted  from  Sophy,  and  Lucy  knew 
far  less  than  the  first  class  at  Fairmead,  and  made  her 
replies  wide  of  the  mark,  with  an  air  of  satisfaction  that 
nearly  overthrew  the  young  step-mother's  patience. 

When  Albinia  took  her  Bible  upstairs,  she  gave  Sophy 
time  to  say  what  Lucy  reported  instantly  on  her  entrance. 

'  Dear  me,  mamma,  here  is  Sophy  declaring  that  you 
ought  to  be  a  charity-schoolmistress.  You  won't  be 
angry  with  her,  but  it  is  so  funny  ! ' 

'If  you  were  at  my  charity  school,  Lucy,'  said  Al- 
binia, '  the  first  lesson  I  should  give  you  would  be  against 
telling  tales.' 

Lucy  subsided. 

Albinia  turned  to  Sophy.  '  My  dear,'  she  said,  '  per- 
haps I  pressed  this  on  when  you  were  not  prepared  for 
it,  but  I  have  always  been  used  to  think  of  it  as  a  duty.' 

Sophy  made  no  answer,  but  her  moody  attitude  re- 
laxed, and  Albinia  took  comfort  in  the  hope  that  she 
might  have  been  gracious  if  she  had  known  how  to  set 
about  it. 

'  I  suppose  Miss  Belmarche  is  a  Roman  Catholic,'  she 
said,  wishing  to  account  for  this  wonderful  ignorance,  and 
addressing  herself  to  Sophy  ;  but  Lucy,  whom  she  thought 
she  had  effectually  put  down,  was  up  again  in  a  moment 
like  a  Jack-in-a-box. 

1  O  yes,  but  not  Genevieve.  Her  papa  made  it  his 
desire  that  she  should  be  brought  up  a  Protestant. 
Wasn't  it  funny  ?  You  know  Genevieve  is  Madame  Bel- 
marche's  grand-daughter,  and  Mr.  Durant  was  a  dancing- 
master.' 

2* 


34  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

'  Madame  Belmarche's  father  and  brother  were  guil- 
lotined,' continued  Sophy. 

1  Ah  !  then  she  is  an  emigrant  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  Miss  Belmarche  has  always  kept  school  here. 
Our  own  mamma  and  Aunt  Maria  went  to  school  to  her, 
and  Miss  Celeste  Belmarche  married  Mr.  Durant,  a  danc- 
ing-master— she  was  French  teacher  in  a  school  in  Lon- 
don where  he  taught ;  and  Madame  Belmarche  did  not 
approve,  for  she  and  her  husband  were  something  very 
grand  in  France,  so  they  waited  and  waited  ever  so  long, 
and  when  at  last  they  did  marry,  they  were  quite  old, 
and  she  died  very  soon ;  and  they  say  he  never  was 
happy  again,  and  pined  away  till  he  really  died  of  grief, 
and  so  Genevieve  came  to  her  grandmamma  to  be 
brought  up.' 

1  Poor  child  !  how  old  is  she  1 ' 

'  Fifteen,'  said  Lucy.  '  She  teaches  in  the  school. 
She  is  not  at  all  pretty,  and  such  a  queer  little  thing.' 

*  Was  her  father  French  1 ' 

1  No,'  said  Sophy. 

'  Yes,'  said  Lucy.  '  You  know  nothing  about  it, 
Sophy.  He  was  French,  but  of  the  Protestant  French 
sort,  that  came  to  England  a  great  many  years  ago,  when 
they  ran  away  from  the  Sicilian  Vespers,  or  the  Edict  of 
Nantes,  I  don't  remember  which ;  only  the  Spital fields 
weavers  have  something  to  do  with  it.  However,  at  any 
rate  Genevieve  has  got  something  in  a  drawer  up  in  her 
own  room  that  she  is  very  secret  about,  and  won't  show 
to  anybody.' 

'  I  think  it  is  something  that  somebody  was  killed 
with,'  said  Sophy,  in  a  low  voice. 

i  Dear  me,  if  it  is,  I  am  sure  it  is  quite  wicked  to 
keep  it.  I  shall  be  quite  afraid  to  go  into  her  room, 
and  you  know  I  slept  there  all  the  time  of  the  fever.' 

4  It  did  not  hurt  you,'  said  Sophy. 

Albinia  had  been  strongly  interested  by  the  touching 
facts,  so  untouchingly  narrated,  and  by  the  characteristic 
account  of  the  Huguenot  emigration,  but  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  her  that  she  was  promoting  gossip,  and  she  re- 
turned to  business.     Lucy  showed  off  her  attainments 


THE   YOUSiG   STEP-MOTHER.  35 

with  her  usual  self-satisfaction.  They  were  what  might 
be  expected  from  a  second-rate  old-fashioned  young  ladies' 
school,  where  nothing  was  good  but  the  French  pronun- 
ciation. She  was  evidently  considered  a  great  proficient, 
and  her  glib  mediocrity  was  even  more  disheartening  than 
the  ungracious  carelessness  or  dulness — there  was  no 
knowing  which — that  made  her  sister  figure  wretchedly 
in  the  examination.  However,  there  was  little  time — 
the  door-bell  rang  at  a  quarter  to  twelve,  and  Mrs. 
Wolfe  was  in  the  drawing-room. 

1 1  told  you  so,'  whispered  Lucy,  exultingly. 

'  This  is  unbearable,'  cried  Albinia.  '  I  shall  give 
notice  that  I  am  always  engaged  in  the  morning.' 

She  desired  each  young  lady  to  work  a  sum  in  her 
absence,  and  left  them  to  murmur,  if  they  were  so  dis- 
posed. Perhaps  it  was  Lucy's  speech  that  made  her  in- 
flict the  employment ;  at  any  rate,  her  spirit  was  not  as 
serene  as  she  could  have  desired. 

Mr.  Kendal  was  quite  willing  that  she  should  hence- 
forth shut  her  door  against  company  in  the  morning ; 
that  is  to  say,  he  bowed  his  head  assentingly.  She  was 
begging  him  to  take  a  walk  with  her,  when,  at  another 
sound  of  the  bell,  he  made  a  precipitate  retreat  into  his 
study.  The  visitors  were  the  Belmarche  family.  The 
old  lady  was  dark  and  withered,  small,  yet  in  look  and 
air,  with  a  certain  nobility  and  grandeur  that  carried  Al- 
binia back  in  a  moment  to  the  days  of  hoops  and  trains, 
of  powder  and  high-heeled  shoes,  and  made  her  feel  that 
the  sweeping  courtesy  had  come  straight  from  the  days 
of  Marie  Antoinette,  and  that  it  was  an  honour  and  dis- 
tinction conferred  by  a  superior — superior,  indeed,  in  all 
the  dignity  of  age,  suffering,  and  constancy. 

Albinia  blushed,  and  took  her  hand  with  respect  very 
unlike  the  patronizing  airs  of  Bayford  Bridge  towards 
'  poor  old  Madame  Belmarche,'  and  with  downcast  eyes 
and  pretty  embarrassment,  heard  the  stately  compliments 
of  the  ancien  regime. 

Miss  Belmarche  was  not  such  a  fine  specimen  of 
Sevres  porcelain  as  her  mother.  She  was  a  brown,  dried, 
small  woman,  having  lost,  or  never  possessed,  her  coun- 


36  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

try's  taste  in  dress,  and  with  a  rusty  bonnet  over  the 
tight,  frizzly  curls  of  her  front ;  too  thin  and  too  scantily 
robed  to  have  any  waist,  and  speaking  English  too  well 
for  the  piquant  grace  of  her  mother's  speech.  Poor 
lady  !  born  an  exile,  she  had  toiled  and  struggled  for  a 
whole  lifetime  to  support  her  mother ;  but  though  care 
had  worn  her  down,  there  was  still  vivacity  in  her  quick 
little  black  eyes,  and  though  her  teeth  were  of  a  dreadful 
colour,  her  laugh  was  so  full  of  life  and  sweetness,  that 
Albinia  felt  drawn  towards  her  in  a  moment. 

Silent  and  demure,  plainly  dressed  in  an  old  dark 
merino,  and  a  white-ribboned  faded  bonnet,  sat  a  little 
figure  almost  behind  her  grandmother.  Her  face  had  the 
French  want  of  complexion,  but  the  eyes  were  of  the 
deepest,  most  lustrous  hue  of  grey,  almost  as  dark  as  the 
pupils,  and  with  the  softness  of  long  dark  eyelashes — 
beautiful  eyes,  full  of  light  and  expression — and  as  she 
moved  towards  the  table,  there  was  a  finish  and  delicacy 
about  the  whole 'form  and  movements,  that  made  her  a 
most  pleasing  object. 

But  Albinia  could  not  improve  her  acquaintance,  for 
in  flowed  another  party  of  visitors,  and  Madame  curtsied 
herself  out  again,  Albinia  volunteering  that  she  would 
soon  come  to  see  her,  and  being  answered,  '  You  will  do 
me  too  much  honour.' 

Another  afternoon  devoured  by  visitors  !  Every  one 
seemed  to  have  come  except  the  persons  who  would  have 
been  most  welcome,  Mr.  Dusautoy,  and  Winifred's 
friends,  the  Nugents. 

When,  at  four  o'clock,  she  had  shaken  hands  with  the 
last  guest,  she  gave  a  hearty  yawn,  jumped  up  and  shook 
herself,  as  she  exclaimed,  '  There  !  There  !  that  is  clone  ! 
1  wonder  whether  your  papa  would  come  out  now  ! ' 

'  He  is  in  his  study,'  said  the  girls. 

Albinia  thought  of  knocking  and  calling  at  the  door, 
but  somehow  it  seemed  impossible,  and  she  decided  on 
promenading  past  his  window  to  show  that  she  was  ready 
for  him.  But  alas  !  those  evergreens !  She  could  not 
see  in,  and  probably  he  could  not  see  out. 

*  Ha ! '  cried  Lucy,  as  they  pursued  their  walk  into 


THE   YOUXG    STEP-MOTHEE.  37 

the  kitchen  garden,  '  here  are  some  asparagus  coming  up. 
Grandmamma  always  has  our  first  asparagus.' 

Albinia  was  delighted  to  find  such  an  opening.  Out 
came  her  knife— they  would  cut  the  heads  and  take  them 
up  at  once ;  but  when  the  tempting  white-stalked,  pink- 
tipped  bundle  had  been  made  up  and  put  into  a  basket,  a 
difficulty  arose. 

'  I'll  call  the  boy  to  take  it,'  said  Lucy. 

1  What,  when  we  are  going  ourselves  ? '  said  Albinia. 

1  Oh  !  but  we  can't.' 

'  Why  ?  Do  you  think  we  shall  break  down  under 
the  weight  ? ' 

1  O  no,  but  people  will  stare.' 

1  Why — what  should  they  stare  at  %  ' 

'  It  looks  so  to  carry  a  basket — ' 

Albinia  burst  into  one  of  her  merriest  peels  of  laugh- 
ing. 

1  Not  carry  a  basket !  My  dear,  I  have  looked  so  all 
the  days  of  my  life.  Bay  ford  must  endure  the  spectacle, 
so  it  may  as  well  begin  at  once.' 

'  But,  dear  mamma — ' 

1  I'm  not  asking  you  to  carry  it.  O  no,  I  only  hope 
you  don't  think  it  too  ungenteel  to  walk  with  me.  But 
the  notion  of  calling  a  boy  away  from  his  work,  to  carry 
a  couple  of  dozen  asparagus  when  an  able-bodied  woman 
is  going  that  way  herself ! ' 

Albinia  was  so  tickled  that  she  could  hardly  check 
herself,  even  when  she  saw  Lucy  looking  distressed  and 
hurt,  and  little  laughs  would  break  out  every  moment  as 
she  beheld  the  young  lady  keeping  aloof,  as  if  ashamed  of 
her  company,  turning  towards  the  steep  church  steps, 
willing  at  least  to  hide  the  dreadful  sight  from  the  High 
Street, 

Just  as  they  had  entered  the  narrow  alley,  they  heard 
a  hasty  tread,  and  almost  running  over  them  with  his  long 
strides,  came  Mr.  Dusautoy.  He  brought  himself  up 
short,  just  in  time,  and  exclaimed,  '  I  beg  your  pardon — 
Mrs.  Kendal  I  believe.  Could  you  be  kind  enough  to 
give  me  a  glass  of  brandy  ?  ' 

Albinia  gave  a  great  start,  as  well  she  might. 


38  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

'  I  was  going  to  fetch  one,'  quickly  proceeded  Mr. 
Dusautoy,  *  but  your  house  is  nearer.  A  poor  man — 
there — just  come  home — been  on  the  tramp  for  work — 
quite  exhausted — '  and  he  pointed  to  one  of  the  cottages. 

'  I'll  fetch  it  at  once,'  cried  Albinia. 

'Thank  you,'  he  said,  as  they  crossed  the  street. 
1  This  poor  fellow  has  had  nothing  all  day,  has  walked 
from  Hadminster — just  got  home,  sank  down  quite  worn 
out,  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  house  but  dry  bread. 
His  wife  wants  something  nearly  as  much  as  he  does.' 

In  the  excitement,  Albinia  utterly  forgot  all  scruples 
about  <  Bluebeard's  closet.'  She  hurried  into  the  house, 
and  made  but  one  dash,  standing  before  her  astonished 
husband's  dreamy  eyes,  exclaiming,  '  Pray  give  me  the 
key  of  the  cellaret ;  there's  a  poor  man  just  come  home, 
fainting  with  exhaustion ;  Mr.  Dusautoy  wants  some 
brandy  for  him.' 

Like  a  man  but  half  awake,  obeying  an  apparition, 
Mr.  Kendal  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  gave  her 
the  key.  She  was  instantly  opening  the  cellaret,  seeking 
among  the  bottles,  and  asking  questions  all  the  time. 
She  proposed  taking  a  jug  of  the  kitchen-tea  then  in  oper- 
ation, and  Mr.  Dusautoy  caught  at  the  idea  ;  so  that  poor 
Lucy  beheld  the  dreadful  spectacle  of  the  vicar  bearing  a 
can  full  of  steaming  tea,  and  Mrs.  Kendal  a  small  cup 
with  the  '  spirituous  liquor.'  What  was  the  asparagus  to 
this? 

Albinia  told  her  to  go  on  to  Mrs.  Meadows',  and  that 
she  should  soon  follow.  She  intended  to  have  gone  the 
moment  that  she  had  carried  in  the  cup,  leaving  Mr.  Du- 
sautoy in  the  cottage,  but  the  poor  trembling  frightened 
wife  needed  woman's  sympathy  and  soothing,  and  she 
waited  to  comfort  her,  and  to  see  the  pair  more  able  to 
enjoy  the  meeting,  in  their  tidy,  but  bare  and  damp-look- 
ing cottage.  She  promised  broth  for  the  morrow,  and 
took  her  leave,  the  vicar  coming  away  at  the  same  time. 

'  Thank  you,'  he  said,  warmly,  as  they  came  out,  and 
turned  to  mount  the  hill  together. 

1  May  I  go  and  call  on  them  again  ? ' 

'  It  will  be  very  kind  in  you.     Poor  Simkins  is  a 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  39 

steady,  good  sort  of  fellow,  but  a  clumsy  workman, 
down-hearted,  and  with  poor  health,  and  things  have  been 
untoward  with  him.' 

*  '  People  who  do  not  prosper  in  the  world  are  not 
always  the  worst,'  said  Albinia. 

1  No,  indeed,  and  these  are  grateful,  warm-hearted 
people  that  you  will  like,  if  you  can  get  over  the  poor 
woman's  lackadaisical  manner.  But  you  are  used  to  all 
that,'  he  added,  smiling.  '  I  see  you  know  what  poor  folks 
are  made  of.' 

1  I  have  been  living  among  them  nearly  all  my  days,' 
said  Albinia.  '  I  hope  you  will  give  me  something  to  do, 
I  should  be  quite  forlorn  without  it ; '  and  she  looked  up 
to  his  kind,  open  face,  as  much  at  home  with  him  as  if  she 
had  known  him  for  years. 

1  Fanny — my  wife — shall  find  work  for  you,'  he  said. 
'  You  must  excuse  her  calling  on  you,  she  is  never  off  the 
sofa,  but — '  and  what  a  bright  look  he  gave  !  as  much  as 
to  say  that  his  wife  on  the  sofa  was  better  than  any  one 
else  off.  '  I  was  hoping  to  call  some  of  these  afternoons,' 
he  continued,  '  but  I  have  had  little  time,  and  Fanny 
thought  your  door  was  besieged  enough  already.' 

i  Thank  you,'  said  Albinia ;  '  I  own  I  thought  it  was 
your  kindness  in  leaving  me  a  little  breathing  time. 
And  would  Mrs.  Dusautoy  be  able  to  see  me  if  I  were  to 
call  ? ' 

1  She  would  be  delighted.  Suppose  you  were  to  come 
in  at  once.' 

;  I  wish  I  could,  but  I  must  go  on  to  Mrs.  Meadows'. 
If  I  were  to  come  to-morrow  '? ' 

'  Any  time — any  time,'  he  said.  '  She  is  always  at 
home,  and  she  has  been  much  better  since  Ave  came  here. 
We  were  too  much  in  the  town  at  Lauriston.' 

Mr.  Dusautoy,  having  a  year  ago  come  out  of  the 
diocese  where  had  been  Albinia's  home,  they  had  many 
common  friends,  and  plunged  into  '  ecclesiastical  intelli- 
gence,' with  a  mutual  understanding  of  the  topics  most 
often  under  discussion,  that  made  Albinia  quite  in  her 
element.     '  A  great  Newfoundland  dog  of  a  man  in  size, 


40  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

and  countenance,  and  kindness,'  thought  she.  '  If  his  wife 
be  worthy  of  him,  I  shall  reck  little  of  all  the  rest.' 

Her  tread  the  gayer  for  this  resumption  of  old  habits, 
she  proceeded  to  Mrs.  Meadows',  where  the  sensation 
created  by  her  poor  little  basket  justified  Lucy's  remon- 
strance. There  were  regrets,  and  assurances  that  the  girl 
could  have  come  in  a  moment,  and  that  she  need  not  have 
troubled  herself,  and  her  laughing  declarations  that  it  was 
no  trouble,  were  disregarded,  except  that  the  old  lady 
said,  in  gentle  excuse  to  her  daughter,  that  Mrs.  Kendal 
had  always  lived  in  the  country,  where  people  could  do 
as  they  pleased. 

1 1  mean  to  do  as  I  please  here,'  said  Albinia,  laugh- 
ing ;  but  the  speech  was  received  with  silent  discomfiture 
that  made  her  heartily  regret  it.  She  disdained  to  ex- 
plain it  away ;  she  was  beginning  to  hold  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Meadows  too  cheap  to  think  it  worth  while. 

'  Well,'  said  Mrs.  Meadows,  as  if  yielding  up  the  sub- 
ject, '  things  may  be  different  from  what  they  were  in  my 
time.' 

'  Oh  !  mamma — Mrs.  Kendal — I  am  sure — '  Albinia 
let  Maria  flounder,  but  she  only  found  her  way  out  of  the 
speech  with  '  Well !  and  is  not  it  the  most  extraordinary? 
— Mr.  Dusautoy — so  rude — ' 

1 1  should  not  wonder  if  you  found  me  almost  as  ex- 
traordinary as  Mr.  Dusautoy,'  said  Albinia. 

Why  would  Miss  Meadows  always  nettle  her  into  say- 
ing exactly  the  wrong  thing,  so  as  to  alarm  and  distress 
the  old  lady  1  That  want  of  comprehension  of  playfulness 
was  a  strangely  hard  trial.  She  turned  to  Mrs.  Meadows 
and  tried  to  reassure  her  by  saying,  '  You  know  I  have 
been  always  in  the  clerical  line  myself,  so  I  naturally  take 
the  part  of  a  parson.1 

'  Yes,  my  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Meadows.  '  I  dare  say  Mr. 
Dusautoy  is  a  very  good  man,  but  I  wish  he  would  allow 
his  poor  delicate  wife  more  butcher's  meat ;  and  I  don't 
think  it  looks  well  to  see  the  vicarage  without  a  'man- 
servant.' 

Albinia  finally  made  her  escape,  and  while  wondering 
whether  she  should  ever  visit  that  house  without  tingling 


THE   YOUXG    STEP-3IOTHEK.  41 

with  irritation  with  herself  and  with  the  inmates,  Lucy 
exclaimed,  '  There,  you  see  I  was  right.  Grandmamma 
and  Aunt  Maria  were  surprised  when  I  told  them  that 
you  said  you  were  an  able-bodied  woman.' 

"What  would  not  Albinia  have  given  for  "Winifred  to 
laugh  with  her  %  What  to  do  now,  she  did  not  know,  so 
she  thought  it  best  not  to  hear,  and  to  ask  the  way  to  a 
carpenter's  shop  to  order  some  book-shelves. 

She  was  more  uncomfortable  after  she  came  home,  for 
by  the  sounds  when  Mr.  Kendal  next  emerged  from  his 
study,  she  found  that  he  had  locked  himself  in,  to  guard 
against  further  intrusion.  And  when  she  offered  to  re- 
turn to  him  the  key  of  the  cellaret,  he  quietly  replied  that 
he  should  prefer  her  retaining  it, — not  a  formidable  an- 
swer in  itself,  but  one  which,  coupled  with  the  locking  of 
the  door,  proved  to  her  that  she  might  do  anything  rather 
than  invade  his  privacy. 

Now  Maurice's  study  was  the  thoroughfare  of  the 
household,  the  place  for  all  parish  preparations  unpresent- 
able ill  the  drawing-room,  and  Albinia  was  taken  by  sur- 
prise. She  grew  hot  and  cold.  Had  she  done  anything 
wrong  1     Could  he  care  for  her  if  he  could  lock  her  out  ? 

'  I  will  not  be  morbid,  I  will  not  be  absurd,'  said  she 
to  herself,  though  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  '  Some 
men  do  not  like  to  be  rushed  in  upon  !  It  may  be  only 
habit.  It  may  have  been  needful  here.  It  is  base  to  take 
petty  offences,  and  set  up  doubts.' 

#And  Mr.  Kendal's  tender  manner  when  they  were 
again  together,  his  gentle  way  of  addressing  her,  and  a 
sort  of  shy  caress,  proved  that  he  was  far  from  all  thought 
of  displeasure  ;  nay,  he  might  be  repenting  of  his  mo- 
mentary annoyance,  though  he  said  nothing. 

Albinia  went  to  inquire  after  the  sick  man  at  her  first 
leisure  moment,  and  while  talking  kindly  to  the  wife,  and 
hearing  her  troubles,  was  surprised  at  the  forlorn  rickety 
state  of  the  building,  the  broken  pavement,  damp  walls, 
and  door  that  would  not  shut,  because  the  frame  had  sunk 
out  of  the  perpendicular. 

'  Can't  you  ask  your  landlord  to  do  something  to  the 
house \  ' 


42  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

'  It  is  of  no  use,  ma'am,  Mr.  Pettilove  never  will  do 
nothing.  Perhaps  if  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  say  a 
word  to  him,  ma'am — ' 

'  Mr.  Pettilove,  the  lawyer  ?  I'll  try  if  Mr.  Kendal 
can  say  anything  to  him.  It  really  is  a  shame  to  leave  a 
house  in  this  condition.' 

Thanks  were  so  profuse,  that  she  feared  that  she  was 
supposed  to  possess  some  power  of  amelioration.  The 
poor  woman  even  insisted  on  conducting  her  up  a  break- 
neck staircase  to  see  the  broken  ceiling,  whence  water 
often  streamed  in  plentifully  from  the  roof. 

Her  mind  full  of  designs  against  the  cruel  landlord, 
she  speeded  up  the  hill,  exhilarated  by  each  step  she  took 
into  the  fresh  air,  to  the  garden-gate,  which  she  was  just 
unhasping,  when  the  hearty  voice  of  the  vicar  was  heard 
behind  her.  '  Mrs.  Kendal  !  I  told  Fanny  you  would 
come.' 

Instead  of  taking  her  to  the  front  door,  he  conducted 
her  across  a  sloping  lawn  towards  a  French  window  open 
to  the  bright  afternoon  sunshine. 

'  Here  she  is,  here  is  Mrs.  Kendal ! '  he  said,  sending 
his  voice  before  him,  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  pretty 
little  drawing-room,  where  through  the  gay  chintz  cur- 
tains, she  saw  the  clear  fire  shining  upon  half-a-dozen 
school  girls,  ranged  opposite^  to  a  couch.  '  Ah  ! '  as  he 
perceived  them,  '  shall  I  take  her  for  a  turn  in  the  garden 
while  you  finish  your  lesson  ?  ' 

1  One  moment,  if  you  please.  I  did  not  know  it  was 
so  late,'  and  a  face  as  bright  as  all  the  rest  was  turned 
towards  the  window. 

'  Ah  !  give  her  her  scholars,  and  she  never  knows  how 
time  passes,'  said  Mr.  Dusautoy.  '  But  step  this  way, 
and  I'll  show  you  the  best  view  in  Bayford.'  He  took  her 
up  a  step  or  two,  to  a  little  turfed  mound,  where  there 
was  a  rustic  seat  commanding  the  whole  exquisite  view 
of  river,  vale,  and  woodland,  with  the  church  tower  rising 
in  the  foreground.  The  wind  blew  pleasantly,  chasing 
the  shadows  of  the  clouds  across  the  open  space.  Albinia 
was  delighted  to  feel  it  fan  her  brow,  and  her  eager  excla- 
mations contented  Mr.  Dusautoy.    '  Yes,'  he  said, '  it  was 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  43 

all  Fanny's  notion.  She  planned  it  all  last  summer  when 
I  took  her  round  the  garden.  It  is  wonderful  what  an 
eye  she  has  !  I  only  hope  when  the  dry  weather  comes, 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  get  her  up  there  to  enjoy  it.' 

On  coming  down  they  found  that  Mrs.  Dusautoy  had 
dismissed  her  class,  and  come  out  to  a  low,  long-backed 
sloping  garden-seat  at  the  window.  She  was  very  little 
and  slight,  a  mere  doll  in  proportion  to  her  great  hus- 
band, who  could  lift  her  as  easily  and  tenderly  as  a  baby, 
paying  her  a  sort  of  reverential  deference  and  fond  admi- 
ration that  rendered  them  a  beautiful  sight,  in  such  full, 
redoubled  measure  was  his  fondness  repaid  by  the  little, 
clever,  fairy-looking  woman,  with  her  playful  manner, 
high  spirits,  keen  wit,  and  the  active  habits  that  even  con- 
firmed invalidism  could  not  destroy.  She  had  small 
deadly  white  hands,  a  fair  complexion,  that  varied  more 
than  was  good  for  her,  pretty,  though  rather  sharp  and 
irregular  features,  and  hazel  eyes  dancing  with  merriment, 
and  face-  and  figure  at  some  years  above  thirty,  would 
have  suited  a  girl  of  twenty.  To  see  Mr.  Dusautoy 
bringing  her  footstools,  shawls,  and  cushions,  and  to 
remember  the  accusation  of  starvation,  was  almost  irre- 
sistibly ludicrous. 

'  Now,  John,  you  had  better  have  been  giving  Mrs. 
Kendal  a  chair  all  this  time.' 

1  Mrs.  Kendal  will  excuse,'  said  Mr.  Dusautoy,  as  he 
brought  her  a  seat. 

'Mrs.  Kendal  .has  excused,'  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy, 
bursting  into  a  merry  fit  of  laughter.  '  Oh,  I  never 
heard  anything  more  charming  than  your  introduction  ! 
I  beg  your  pardon  but  I  laughed  last  evening  till  I  was 
worn  out,  and  waked  in  the  night  laughing  again.' 

It  was  exhilarating  to  find  that  any  one  laughed  at 
Bay  ford,  and  Albinia  partook  of  the  mirth  with  all  her 
heart.  '  Never  was  an  address  more  gratifying  to  me,' 
she  said. 

'  It  was  like  him  !  so  unlike  Bay  ford  !  So  bold  a  ven- 
ture ! '  continued  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  amid  peals  of  laughter. 

'  What  is  there  to  laugh  at  ? '  said  Mr.  Dusautoy, 
putting  on  a  look  between  merriment   and  simplicity. 


44  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK. 

'  What  else  could  I  have  done  ?  I  should  have  done  the 
same  whoever  I  had  met.' 

'  Ah  !  now  he  is  afraid  of  your  taking  it  as  too  great 
a  compliment !  To  do  him  justice  I  believe  he  would, 
but  the  question  is,  what  answer  he  would  have  had.' 

'  Nobody  could  have  refused — '  began  Albinia. 

'  Oh  ! '  cried  Mrs.  Dusautov.  '  Little  you  know 
Bayford.' 

1  Fanny !  Fanny !  this  is  too  bad.  Madame  Bel- 
marche — ' 

I  Would  have  had  nothing  but  eau  sucre  !  No,  John, 
decidedly  you  and  Simkins  fell  upon  your  legs,  and  you 
had  better  take  credit  for  your  "  admirable  sagacity."  ' 

'  I  like  the  people,'  said  Albinia  ;  '  but  they  never  can 
be  well  while  they  live  in  such  a  shocking  place.  It  is 
quite  a  disgrace  to  Bayford.' 

6  It  is  in  a  sad  state,'  said  Mr.  Dusautov. 

I I  know  I  should  like  to  set  my  brother  upon  that 
Mr.  Pettilove,  who  they  say  will  do  nothing,'  exclaimed 
Albinia. 

The  vicar  was  going  to  have  said  something,  but  a 
look  from  his  wife  checked  him.  Albinia  was  sorry  for 
it,  as  she  detected  a  look  of  suppressed  amusement  on 
Mrs.  Dusautoy's  face.  '  I  mean  to  ask  Mr.  Kendal  what 
can  be  done,'  she  said  ;  '  and  in  the  meantime,  to  descend 
from  what  we  can't  do  to  what  we  can.  Mr.  Dusautoy 
told  me  to  come  to  you  for  orders.' 

'  And  I  told  Mr.  Dusautoy  that  I  should  give  you 
none.' 

1  Oh  !  that  is  hard.' 

'  If  you  could  have  heard  him  !  He  though!:  he  had 
got  a  working  lady  at  last,  and  he  would  have  had  no 
mercy  upon  you.  One  would  have  imagined  that  Mr. 
Kendal  had  brought  you  here  for  his  sole  behoof! ' 

'  Then  I  shall  look  to  you,  Mr.  Dusautoy.' 

'  No,  I  believe  she  is  quite  right,'  he  said.  '  She  says 
you  ought  to  undertake  nothing  till  you  have  had  time  to 
see  what  leisure  you  have  to  give  us.' 

'  Nay,  I  have  been  used  to  think  the  parish  my  busi- 
ness, home  my  leisure.' 


THE  TOUXG   STEP-MOTHER.  45 

'  Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  '  but  then  you  were  the 
woman-kind  of  the  clergy,  now  you  are  a  lay-woman.' 

*  I  think  you  have  work  at  home,'  said  the  vicar. 

'  Work,  but  not  work  enough  !  '  cried  Albinia.  '  The 
girls  will  help  me ;  only  tell  me  what  I  may  do.' 

'  I  say,  "  what  you  can,"  '  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy.  c  You 
see  before  you  a  single-handed  man.  Only  two  of  the 
ladies  here  can  be  called  coadjutors,  one  being  poor  little 
Genevieve  Durant,  the  other  the  bookseller's  daughter, 
Clarissa  Richardson,  who  made  all  the  rest  fly  off.  All 
the  others  do  what  good  they  mean  to  do  according  to 
their  own  sweet  will,  free  and  independent  women,  and 
we  can't  have  any  district  system,  so  I  think  you  can  only 
do  what  just  comes  to  hand.' 

Most  heartily  did  Albinia  undertake  all  that  Mrs. 
Dusautoy  would  let  her  husband  assign  to  her. 

'  Yes,  John  is  a  strong  temptation,'  said  the  bright 
little  invalid  ;  '  but  you  must  let  Mrs.  Kendal  find  out  in 
a  month's  time  whether  she  has  work  enough.' 

'  I  could  think  my  wise  brother  Maurice  had  been 
cautioning  you,'  said  Albinia,  taking  leave  as  of  an  old 
friend,  for  indeed  she  felt  more  at  home  with  Mrs.  Dusau- 
toy than  with  any  acquaintance  she  had  made  in  Bayford. 

Albinia  told  her  husband  of  the  state  of  the  cottages, 
and  railed  at  Mr.  Pettilove  much  to  her  own  satisfaction. 
Mr.  Kendal  answered,  '  He  would  see  about  it,'  an  answer 
of  which  Albinia  had  yet  to  learn  the  import. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


There  are  some  characters  so  constituted,  that  of 
them  the  old  proverb,  that  Love  is  blind,  is  perfectly 
true ;  they  can  see  no  imperfection  in  the  mind  or  body 
of  those  dear  to  them.  There  are  others  in  whom  the 
strongest  affections  do  not  destroy  clearness  of  vision, 
who  see  their  friends  on  all  sides,  and  perceive  their 
faults  and  foibles,  without  loving  them  the  less. 


46  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

Albinia  Kendal  was  a  person  of  the  latter  description. 
It  might  almost  be  called  her  temptation,  that  her  mind 
beheld  all  that  came  before  it  in  a  clear,  and  a  humorous 
light,  such  as  only  a  disposition  overflowing  with  warm 
affection  and  with  the  energy  of  kindness,  could  have  pre- 
vented from  bordering  upon  censoriousess.  She  had 
imagination,  but  it  was  not  such  as  to  make  an  illusion 
of  the  present,  or  to  interfere  with  her  almost  satirical 
good  sense.  Happily,  religion  and  its  earthly  manifesta- 
tion— charity  regulated  her,  taught  her  to  fear  to  judge, 
lest  she  should  be  judged,  strengthened  her  naturally  fond 
affections,  and  tempered  the  keenness  that  disappointment 
might  soon  have  turned  to  sourness.  The  tongue,  the 
temper,  and  the  judgment  knew  their  own  tendencies,  and 
a  guard  was  set  over  them  ;  and  if  the  sentinel  were  ever 
torpid  or  deceived,  repentance  paid  the  penalty. 

She  had  not  long  seen  her  husband  at  home  before  she 
had  involuntarily  completed  her  view  of  his  character. 
Nature  must  have  designed  him  for  a  fellow  of  a  college, 
where,  apart  from  all  cares,  he  might  have  collected  frag- 
ments of  forgotten  authors,  and  immortalized  his  name  by 
some  edition  of  a  Greek  Lyric  poet,  known  by  four  poems 
and  a  half,  and  two-thirds  of  a  line  quoted  somewhere 
else.  In  such  a  controversy,  lightened  by  perpetually 
polished  poems,  by  a  fair  amount  of  modern  literature, 
select  college  friendships,  and  methodical  habits,  Edmund 
Kendal  would  have  been  in  his  congenial  element,  lived 
and  died,  and  had  his  portrait  hung  up  as  one  of  the 
glories  of  his  college. 

But  he  had  been  carried  off  from  school,  before  he  had 
done  more  than  prove  his  unusual  capacity.  All  his  con- 
nexions were  Indian,  and  his  father,  who  had  not  seen 
him  since  his  earliest  childhood,  offered  him  no  choice  but 
an  appointment  in  the  civil  service.  He  had  one  stim- 
ulus ;  he  had  seen  Lucy  Meadows  in  the  radiant  glory  of 
girlish  beauty,  and  had  fastened  on  her  all  a  poet's  dreams, 
deepening  and  becoming  more  fervid  in  the  recesses  of  a 
reserved  heart,  which  did  not  easily  admit  new  sensations. 
That  stimulus  carried  him  out  cheerfully  to  India,  and 
quickened  his  abilities,  so  that  he  exerted  himself  suffi- 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK.  47 

ciently  to  obtain  a  lucrative  situation  early  in  life.  He 
married,  and  his  household  must  have  been  on  the  Ger- 
man system,  all  the  learning  on  one  side,  all  the  domestic 
cares  on  the  other.  The  understanding  and  refinement 
wanting  in  his  wife,  he  believed  to  be  wanting  in  all 
women.  As  resident  at  a  small  remote  native  court  in 
India,  he  saw  no  female  society  such  as  could  undeceive 
him  ;  and  subsequently  his  Bayford  life  had  not  raised  his 
standard  of  womankind.  A  perfect  gentleman,  his  supe- 
riority was  his  own  work,  rather  than  that  of  station  or 
education  ;  and  so  he  had  never  missed  intercourse  with 
really  ladylike  or  cultivated  female  minds,  expected  little 
from  wife,  or  daughters,  or  neighbours  ;  had  a  few  learned 
friends,  but  lived  within  himself.  He  had  acquired  a 
competence  too  soon,  and  had  the  great  misfortune  of 
property  without  duties  to  present  themselves  obviously. 
He  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  indulge  his  naturally  indo- 
lent scholarly  tastes,  which,  directed  as  they  had  been  to 
Eastern  languages,  had  even  less  chance  of  sympathy 
among  his  neighbours  than  if  they  had  been  classical. 
Always  reserved,  and  seldom  or  never  meeting  with  per- 
sons who  could  converse  with  him,  he  had  lapsed  into 
secluded  habits,  and  learnt  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  study 
and  exclude  every  one,  that  he  might  have  at  least  a 
refuge  from  the  gossip  and  petty  cares  that  reigned  every- 
where else.  So  seldom  was  anything  said  worth  his  atten- 
tion, that  he  never  listened  to  what  was  passing,  and  had 
learnt  to  say  '  very  well ' — '  I'll  see  about  it,'  without 
even  knowing  what  was  said  to  him. 

But  though  his  wife  had  been  no  companion,  the  illu- 
sion had  never  died  away  ;  he  had  always  loved  her  de- 
votedly, and  her  loss  had  shattered  all  his  present  rest 
and  comfort ;  as  entirely  as  the  death  of  his  son  had 
taken  from  him  hope  and  companionship. 

What  a  home  it  must  have  been,  with  Lucy  reigning 
over  it  in  her  pert  self-sufficiency,  Gilbert  and  Sophy  run- 
ning riot  and  squabbling,  and  Maria  Meadows  coming  in 
on  them  with  her  well-meant  worries  and  persecutions  ! 

When  taken  away  from  the  scene  of  his  troubles,  his 
spirits  revived;   afraid  to  encounter  his  own  household 


48  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE. 

alone,  he  had  thought  Albinia  the  cure  for  everything. 
But  at  home,  habit  and  association  had  proved  too  strong 
for  her  presence — the  grief  which  he  had  tried  to  leave 
behind,  had  waited  ready  to  meet  him  on  the  threshold, 
and  the  very  sense  that  it  was  a  melancholy  welcome 
added  to  his  depression,  and  made  him  less  able  to  exert 
himself.  The  old  sorrows  haunted  the  walls  of  the  house, 
and  above  all  the  study,  and  tarried  not  in  seizing  on  their 
unresisting  victim.  Melancholy  was  in  his  nature,  his  in- 
dolence gave  it  force,  and  his  habits  were  almost  inefface- 
able, and  they  were  habits  of  quiet  selfishness,  formed  by 
a  resolute,  though  inert  will,  and  fostered  by  an  adoring 
wife.  A  youth  spent  in  India  had  not  given  him  ideas 
of  responsibilities  beyond  his  own  family  ;  and  his  prin- 
ciples, though  sound,  had  not  expanded  the  views  of  duty 
with  which  he  had  started  in  life. 

It  was  a  positive  pleasure  to  Albinia  to  discover  that 
there  had  been  an  inefficient  clergyman  at  Bay  ford  before 
Mr.  Dusautoy,  and  to  know  that  during  half  the  time  that 
the  present  vicar  had  held  the  living,  Mr.  Kendal  had 
been  absent,  so  that  his  influence  had  had  no  time  to 
work.  She  began  to  understand  her  line  of  action.  It 
must  be  her  effort,  in  all  loving  patience  and  gentleness, 
to  raise  her  husband's  spirits  and  rouse*  his  faculties  ;  to 
make  his  powers  available  for  the  good  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  to  make  him  an  active  and  happy  man,  and  to 
draw  him  and  his  children  together.  This  was  truly  a 
task  to  make  her  heart  throb  high  with  hope  and  energy. 
Strong  and  brave  was  that  young  heart,  and  not  self-con- 
fident— the  difficulty  made  her  only  the  more  hopeful, 
because  she  saw  it  was  her  duty.  She  was  secure  of  her 
influence  with  him.  If  he  did  exclude  her  from  his  study, 
he  left  her  supreme  elsewhere,  and  though  she  would  have 
given  the  world  that  their  sovereignty  might  be  a  joint 
one  everywhere,  still  she  allowed  much  for  the  morbid 
inveterate  habit  of  dreading  disturbance.  When  he  began 
by  silence  and  not  listening,  she  could  always  rouse  him, 
and  give  him  animation,  and  he  was  so  much  surprised 
and  pleased  whenever  she  entered  into  any  of  his  pursuits, 
that  she  had  full  hope  of  drawing  him  out. 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  49 

One  day  when  the  fog,  instead  of  clearing  off,  had 
turned  to  violent  rain,  Albinia  had  been  out  on  parish 
work,  and  afterwards  enlivening  old  Mrs.  Meadows  by 
dutifully  spending  an  hour  with  her,  while .  Maria  was 
nursing  a  nervous  headache — she  had  been  subject  to  head- 
aches ever  since— — an  ominous  sigh  supplied  the  rest. 

But  all  the  effect  of  Albinia's  bright  kindness  was 
undone,  when  the  grandmother  learnt  that  Gilbert  was 
gone  to  his  tutor,  and  would  have  to  come  home  in  the 
rain,  and  she  gave  such  an  account  of  his  exceeding  deli- 
cacy, that  Albinia  became  alarmed,  and  set  off  at  once 
that  she  might  consult  his  father  about  sending  for  him. 

Her  opening  of  the  hall  door  was  answered  by  Mr. 
Kendal  emerging  from  his  study.  He  was  looking  rest- 
less and  anxious,  came  to  meet  her,  and  uncloaked  her, 
while  he  affectionately  scolded  her  for  being  so  venture- 
some. She  told  him  where  she  had  been,  and  he  smiled, 
saying,  '  You  are  a  busy  spirit !  But  you  must  not  be 
too  imprudent.' 

'  Oh,  nothing  hurts  me.  It  is  poor  Gilbert  that  I  am 
anxious  about. 

1  So  am  I.  Gilbert  has  not  a  constitution  fit  for  ex- 
posure.    I  wish  he  were  come  home.' 

'  Could  we  not  send  for  him  ?    Suppose  we  sent  a  fly.' 

He  was  consenting  with  a  pleased  smile,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  there  stood  the  dripping  Gilbert,  com- 
pletely wet  through,  pale  and  chilled,  with  his  hair  plas- 
tered down,  and  his  coat  stuck  all  over  with  the  horse's 
short  hair. 

'  You  must  go  to  bed  at  once,  Gilbert/  said  his  father. 
'  Are  you  cold  ? ' 

'  Very.  It  was  such  a  horrid  driving  wind,  and  I  rode 
so  fast,'  said  Gilbert ;  violently  shivering,  as  they  helped 
to  pull  him  out  of  his  great  coat ;  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
mouth,  and  said  that  his  face  ached.  Mr.  Kendal  was 
very  anxious,  and  Albinia  hurried  the  boy  up  to  bed,  and 
meantime  ordered  quickly  a  basin  of  the  soup  preparing 
for  dinner,  warmed  some  worsted  socks  at  the  fire,  and 
ran  upstairs  with  them. 

He  seemed  to  have  no  substance  in  him  ;  he  had 
3 


50  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

hardly  had  energy  to  undress  himself,  and  she  found  him 
with  his  face  hidden  on  the  pillow,  shivering  audibly,  and 
actually  crying.     She  was  aghast. 

The  boys  with  whom  she  had  been  brought  up,  would 
never  have  given  way  so  entirely  without  resistance  ;  but 
between  laughing,  cheering,  scolding,  covering  him  up 
close,  and  rubbing  his  hands  with  her  own,  she  comforted 
him,  so  that  he  could  be  grateful  and  cheerful  when  his 
father  himself  came  up  with  the  soup.  Albinia  noticed  a 
sort  of  shudder  pass  over  Mr.  Kendal  as  he  entered,  and 
he  stood  close  by  Gilbert,  turning  his  back  on  everything 
else,  while  he  watched  the  boy  eat  the  soup,  as  if  restored 
by  every  spoonful.  '  That  was  a  good  thought,'  was  his 
comment  to  his  wife,  and  the  look  of  gratitude  brought  a 
flush  of  pleasure  into  her  cheek. 

Of  all  the  dinners,  this  was  the  most  pleasant ;  he  was 
more  gentle  and  affectionate,  and  she  made  him  tell  her 
about  the  Persian  poets,  and  promise  to  show  her  some 
specimens  of  the  Rose  Garden  of  Saadi — she  had  never 
before  been  so  near  having  his  pursuits  opened  to  her. 

'  What  a  favourite  Gilbert  is  ! '  Lucy  said  to  Sophia, 
as  Albinia  lighted  a  candle  and  went  up  to  his  room. 

1  He  makes  such  a  fuss,'  said  Sophy.  '  What  is  there 
in  being  wret  through  to  cry  about  ? ' 

Albinia  heard  a  little  shuffle  as  she  opened  the  door, 
and  Gilbert  pushed  a  book  under  his  pillow.  She  asked 
him  what  he  had  been  reading.  *  Oh,'  he  said,  '  he  had 
not  been  doing  it  long,  for  the  flickering  of  the  candle 
hurt  his  eyes.' 

1  Yes,  you  had  better  not,'  said  Albinia,  moving  the 
flaring  light  to  a  less  draughty  part  of  the  dingy  white- 
washed attic.     '  Or  shall  I  read  to  you  ? ' 

1  Are  you  come  to  stay  with  me  ? '  cried  the  boy, 
raising  himself  up  to  look  after  her,  as  she  moved  about 
the  room  and  stood  looking  from  the  window  over  the 
trees  at  the  water  meadows,  now  flooded  into  a  lake,  and 
lighted  by  the  beams  of  a  young  moon. 

'  I  can  stay  till  your  father  is  ready  for  tea,'  said  Al- 
binia, coming  nearer.  '  Let  me  see  whether  your  hands 
are  hot.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  51 

She  found  her  own  hand  suddenly  clasped,  and  pressed 
to  his  lips,  and  then,  as  if  ashamed,  he  turned  his  face 
away;  nor  would  she  betray  her  pleasure  in  it,  hut 
merely  said,  '  Shall  I  go  on  with  your  book  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  he,  wearily  turning  his  reddened  check  to 
the  other  side.  '  I  only  took  it  because  it  is  so  horrid 
lying  here  thinking.' 

1 1  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  Do  you  know,  Gibbie, 
that  it  is  said  there  is  nothing  more  lamentable  than 
for  a  man  not  to  like  to  have  his  own  thoughts  for  his 
company,'  said  she,  gaily. 

1  Ah  !  but —  ! '  said  Gilbert.  '  If  I  lie  here  alone,  I'm 
always  looking  out  there,'  and  he  pointed  to  the  opposite 
recess.  She  looked,  but  saw  nothing.  '  Don't  you  know  1 ' 
he  said. 

i  Edmund  ? '  she  asked. 

He  grasped  her  hands  in  both  his  own.  '  Aye  !  Ned 
used  to  sleep  there.     I  always  look  for  him  there.' 

'  Do  you  mean  that  you  would  rather  have  another 
room  ?     1  would  manage  it  directly.' 

1  O  no,  thank  you,  I  like  it  for  some  things.  Take 
the  candle — look  by  the  shutter — cut  out  in  the  wood.' 

The  boys'  scoring  of '  E.  &  G.  K.,'  was  visible  there. 

'  Papa  has  taken  ail  he  could  of  Edmund's,'  said  Gil- 
bert, '  but  he  could  not  take  that !  No,  I  would  not  have 
any  other  room  if  you  were  to  give  me  the  best  in  the 
house.' 

'  I  am  sure  not !  But,  my  dear,  considering  what 
Edmund  was,  surely  they  should  be  gentle,  happy 
thoughts  that  the  room  should  give  you.' 

He  shuddered,  and  presently  said,  '  Do  you  know 
what  1 '  and  paused  ;  then  continued,  with  an  effort,  get- 
ting tight  hold  of  her  hand,  '  Just  before  Edmund  died — 
he  lay  out  there — I  lay  here — he  sat  up  all  white  in  bed, 
and  he  called  out,  clear  and  loud,  l'  Mamma,  Gilbert  " — 
I  saw  him — and  then — he  was  dead  !  And  you  know 
mamma  did  die — and  I'm  sure  I  shall  ! '  He  had  worked 
himself  into  a  trembling  fit,  hid  his  face  and  sobbed. 

'  But  you  have  not  died  of  the  fever.' 

1  Yes — but  I  know  it  means  that  I  shall  die  young  ! 


52  THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

I  am  sure  it  does  !  It  was  a  call !  I  heard  Nurse  say  it 
was  a  call ! ' 

What  was  to  be  done  with  such  a  superstition  ?  Al- 
binia  did  not  think  it  would  be  right  to  argue  it  away. 
It  might  be  in  truth  a  warning  to  him  to  guard  his  ways 
■ — a  voice  from  the  twin-brother,  to  be  with  him  through 
life.     She  knelt  down  by  him,  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

'  Dear  Gilbert,'  she  said,  ;  we  all  shall  die.' 

c  Yes,  but  I  shall  die  young.' 

1  And  if  you  should.  Those  are  happy  who  die  young. 
How  much  pain  your  baby-brother  and  sisters  have 
missed  !     How  happy  Edmund  is  now  ! ' 

'  Then  you  really  think  it  meant  that  I  shall ! '  he 
cried,  tremblingly.     '  O  don't !     I  can't  die  ! ' 

'  Your  brother  called  on  what  he  loved  best,'  said  Al- 
binia.  '  It  may  mean  nothing.  Or  rather,  it  may  mean 
that  your  dear  twin-brother  is  watching  for  you,  I  am 
sure  he  is,  to  have  you  with  him,  for  what  makes  your 
mortal  life,  however  long,  seem  as  nothing.  It  was  a 
call  to  you  to  be  as  pure  on  earth  as  he  is  in  heaven.  O 
Gilbert,  how  good  you  should  be  ! ' 

Gilbert  did  not  know  whether  it  frightened  him  or 
soothed  him  to  see  his  superstition  treated  with  respect 
— neither  denied,  nor  reasoned  away.  But  the  ghastliness 
was  not  in  the  mere  fear  that  death  might  not  be  for  off. 

The  pillow  had  turned  a  little  on  one  side — Albinia 
tried  to  smoothe  it — the  corner  of  a  book  peeped  out. 
It  was  a  translation  of  The  Three  Musqueteers,  one  of  the 
worst  and  most  fascinating  of  Dumas'  romances. 

'  You  won't  tell  papa  ! '  cried  Gilbert,  raising  himself, 
in  fir  more  real  and  present  terror  than  he  had  previously 
shown. 

'  How  did  you  get  it  1     Whose  is  it  ? ' 

1  It  is  my  own.  I  bought  it  at  Richardson's.  It  is 
very  funny.  But  you  won't  tell  papa  ?  I  never  was  told 
not ;  indeed  I  was  not.' 

'  Now,  Gilbert,  dear,  will  you  tell  me  a  few  things  1 
I  do  only  wish  what  is  good  for  you.  Why  don't  you 
wish  that  papa  should  hear  of  this  book  %  ' 

Gilbert  writhed  himself. 


THE   YOTJXG    STEP-MOTHER,  53 

*  You  know  he  would  not  like  it  1 ' 

*  Then  why  did  you  take  to  reading  it  1 ' 

■  Oh ! '  cried  the  boy,  '  if  you  only  did  know  how 
stupid  and  how  miserable  it  has  been  !  More  than  half 
myself  gone,  and  Sophy  always  glum,  and  Lucy  always 
plaguing,  and  Aunt  Maria  always  being  a  torment,  you 
would  not  wonder  at  one's  doing  anything  to  forget  it ! ' 

'  Yes,  but  why  do  what  you  knew  to  be  wrong  1 ' 

*  Nobody  told  me  not.' 

'  Disobedience  to  the  spirit,  then,  if  not  to  the  letter. 
It  was  not  the  way  to  be  happier,  my  poor  boy,  nor 
nearer  to  your  brother  and  mother.' 

I  Things  didn't  use  to  be  stupid  when  Ned  was 
there ! '  sobbed  Gilbert,  bursting  into  a  fresh  flood  of 
tears. 

*  Ah  !  Gilbert,  I  grieved  most  of  all  for  you  when  first 
I  heard  your  story,  before  I  thought  I  should  ever  have 
anything  to  do  with  you,'  said  Albinia,  hanging  over  him 
fondly.  '  I  always  thought  it  must  be  so  forlorn  to  be  a 
twin  left  solitary.  But  it  is  sadder  still  than  I  knew,  if 
grief  has  made  you  put  yourself  farther  from  him  instead 
of  nearer.' 

*  I  shall  be  good  again  now  that  I  have  you,'  said  Gil- 
bert, as  he  looked  up  into  that  sweet  face. 

'  And  you  will  begin  by  making  a  free  confession  to 
your  father,  and  giving  up  the  book.' 

I I  don't  see  what  I  have  to  confess.  He  would  be  so 
angry,  and  he  never  told  me  not.     Oh  !  I  cannot  tell  him.' 

She  felt  that  this  was  not  the  right  way  to  begin  a 
reformation,  and  yet  she  feared  to  press  the  point,  know- 
ing that  the  one  was  thought  severe,  the  other  timid. 

'  At  least  you  will  give  up  the  book,'  she  said. 

'  O  dear !  if  you  would  let  me  see  whether  d'Artig- 
nan  got  to  England.  I  must  know  that !  I'm  sure  there 
can't  be  any  harm  in  that.  Do  you  know  what  it  is 
about  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  do.  My  brother  got  it  by  some  mistake 
among  some  French  books.  He  read  some  of  the  droll 
unobjectionable  parts  to  my  sister  and  me,  but  the  rest 
was  so  bad,  that  he  threw  it  into  the  fire.' 


54  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

*  Then  you  think  it  funny  ? ' 

*  To  be  sure  I  do.' 

*  Do  you  remember  the  three  duels  all  at  once,  and 
the  three  valets  ?  Oh  !  what  fiin  it  is.  But  do  let  me 
see  if  d'Artignan  got  the  diamonds.' 

'  Yes,  he  did.  But  will  this  satisfy  you,  Gilbert  1 
You  know  there  are  some  exciting  pleasures  that  we 
must  turn  our  backs  on  resolutely.  1  think  this  book  is 
one  of  them.  Now  you  will  let  me  take  it  ?  I  will  tell 
your  father  about  it  in  private,  and  he  cannot  blame  you. 
Then,  if  he  will  give  his  consent,  whenever  you  can  come 
home  early,  come  to  my  dressing-room,  out  of  your  sis- 
ters' way,  and  I  will  read  to  you  the  innocent  part,  so  as 
to  get  the  story  out  of  your  brain.' 

'  Very  well,'  said  Gilbert,  slowly.  '  Yes,  if  you  will 
not  let  papa  be  angry  with  me.  And,  oh  dear  !  must 
you  go  r 

1 1  think  you  had  better  dress  yourself  and  come  down 
to  tea.  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  you  now,  is 
there  1 ' 

He  was  delighted  with  the  suggestion,  and  promised 
to  come  directly  ;  and  Albinia  carried  off  her  prize,  ex- 
ceedingly hopeful  and  puzzled,  and  wondering  whether 
her  compromise  had  been  a  right  one,  or  a  mere  tamper- 
ing with  temptation — delighted  with  the  confidence  and 
affection  bestowed  on  her  so  freely,  but  awe-struck  by  the 
impression  which  the  boy  had  avowed,  and  marvelling 
how  it  should  be  treated,  so  as  to  render  it  a  blessed  and 
salutary  restraint,  rather  than  the  dim  superstitious 
terror  that  it  was  at  present.  At  least  there  was  hope 
of  influencing  him  ;  his  heart  was  affectionate,  his  will  on 
the  side  of  right,  and  in  consideration  of  feeble  health  and 
timid  character,  she  would  overlook  the  fact  that  he  had 
not  made  one  voluntary  open  confession,  and  that  the 
partial  renunciation  had  been  wrung  from  him  as  a  choice 
of  evils.  She  could  only  feel  how  much  he  was  to  be 
pitied,  and  how  he  responded  to  her  affection. 

She  was  crossing  the  hall  next  day,  when  she  heard  a 
confusion  of  tongues  through  the  open  door  of  the  dining- 
room,  and  above  all,  Gilbert's.     '  Well,  I  say,  there  are 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  55 

but  two  ladies  in  Bayford.     One  is  Mrs.  Kendal,  and  the 
other  is  Genevieve  Durant ! ' 

I  A  dancing-master's  daughter  ! '  Lucy's  scornful  tone 
was  immistakeable,  and  so  was  the  ensuing  high-pitched 
querulous  voice,  '  Well,  to  be  sure,  Gilbert  might  be  a 
little  more — a  little  more  civil.  Not  that  I've  a  word  to 
say  against — against  your — your  mamma.  Oh,  no  ! — 
glad  to  see — but  Gilbert  might  be  more  civil.' 

I I  think  so  indeed,'  said  Albinia.  '  Good  morning, 
Miss  Meadows.  You  see  Gilbert  has  come  home  quite 
alive  enough  for  mischief.' 

'  Ah  !  I  thought  I  might  be  excused.  Mamma  was  so 
uneasy — though  I  know  you  don't  admit  visitors — my 
just  coming  to  see —  We've  been  always  so  anxious 
about  Gilbert.  Gibbie  dear,  where  is  that  flannel  I  gave 
you  for  your  throat  ? ' 

She  advanced  to  put  her  finger  within  his  neck-tie  and 
feel  for  it.  Gilbert  stuck  his  chin  down,  and  snapped  with 
his  teeth  like  a  gin.  Lucy  exclaimed,  '  Now,  Gilbert,  I 
know  mamma  will  say  that  is  wrong.' 

'  Ah  !  we  are  used  to  Gilbert's  tricks.  Always  bear 
with  a  boy's  antics,'  said  Miss  Meadows,  preventing 
whatever  she  thought  was  coming  out  of  Mrs.  Kendal's 
mouth.  Albinia  took  the  unwise  step  of  laughing,  for  her 
sympathies  were  decidedly  with  resistance  both  to  flan- 
nels and  to  the  insertion  of  that  hooked  finger. 

'  Mr.  Bowles  has  always  said  it  was  a  case  for  great 
care.  Flannel  next  the  skin — no  exposure,'  continued 
Miss  Meadows,  tartly.  '  I  am  sure — 1  know  I  am  the  last 
person  to  wish  to  interfere — but  so  delicate —  You'll 
excuse1— but  my  mother  was  uneasy  ;  and  people  who  go 
out  in  all  weathers — ' 

'  I  hope  Mrs.  Meadows  had  my  note  this  morning.' 

'  O  yes  !  I  am  perfectly  aware.  Thank  you.  Yes, 
I  know  the  rule,  but  you'll  excuse —  My  mother  was 
still  anxious — I  know  you  exclude  visitors  in  lesson-time. 
I'm  going.  Only  grandmamma  would  be  glad — not  that 
she  wishes  to  interfere — but  if  Gilbert  had  on  his  piece  of 
flannel — ' 

'  Have  you,  Gilbert  ? '  said  Albinia,  becoming  tor- 
mented. 


56  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

*  I  have  been  flannel  all  over  all  my  life,'  said  Gilbert, 
sulkily  ;  '  one  bit  more  or  less  can  make  no  odds.' 

'  Then  you  have  not  that  piece  ?  '  said  Albinia. 

'  Oh,  my  dear  !  Think  of  that !  New  Saxony  !  I 
begged  it  of  Mr.  Holland.  A  new  remnant — pink  list, 
and  all !  I  said  it  was  just  what  I  wanted  for  Master  Gil- 
bert. Mr.  Holland  is  always  a  civil,  feeling  man.  New 
Saxony — three  shillings  the  yard — and  trimmed  with 
blue  sarsenet !     Where  is  it,  Gilbert  1 ' 

1  In  a  soup-dish,  with  a  crop  of  mustard  and  cress  on 
it,'  said  Gilbert,  with  a  wicked  wink  at  Albinia,  who  was 
unable  to  resist  joining  in  the  girls'  shout  of  laughing ; 
but  she  became  alarmed  when  she  found  that  poor  Miss 
Meadows  was  very  near  crying,  and  that  her  incoherency 
became  so  lachrymose  as  to  be  utterly  incomprehensible. 

Lucy,  ashamed  of  her  laughter,  solemnly  declared 
that  it  was  very  wrong  of  Gilbert,  and  she  hoped  he 
would  not  suffer  from  it ;  and  Albinia,  trying  to  become 
grave,  judicial,  and  conciliatory,  contrived  to  pronounce 
that  it  was  very  silly  to  leave  anything  off  in  an  east 
wind,  and  hoping  to  put  an  end  to  the  matter,  asked  Aunt 
Maria  to  sit  down,  and  judge  how  they  went  on  with  their 
lessons. 

0  no ;  she  could  not  interrupt.  Her  mother  would 
want  her.  She  knew  Mrs.  Kendal  never  admitted  vis- 
itors. She  had  no  doubt  she  was  quite  right.  She 
hoped  it  would  be  understood.  She  would  not  intrude. 
In  fact,  she  could  neither  go  nor  stay.  She  would  not 
resume  her  seat,  nor  let  anything  go  on,  and  it  was  full 
twenty  minutes  before  a  series  of  little  vibrating  motions 
and  fragmentary  phrases  had  borne  her  out  of  the  House. 

'  Well ! '  cried  Gilbert,  '  I  hoped  Aunt  Maria  had  left 
off  coming  down  upon  us.' 

'  O,  mamma  ! '  exclaimed  Lucy,  '  you  never  sent  your 
love  to  grandmamma.' 

'  Depend  upon  it  she  was  waiting  for  that,'  said  Gil- 
bert. 

'  I'm  sure  I  wish  I  had  known  it,'  said  Albinia,  not  in 
the  most  judicious  manner.     '  Half-past  eleven  ! ' 

1  Aunt  Maria  says  she  can't  think  how  you  can  find 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  51 

time  for  church  when  you  can't  see  visitors  in  the  morn- 
ing,' said  Lucy.  '  And  oh  !  clear  mamma,  grandmamma 
says  gravy  soup  was  enough  to  throw  Gilbert  into  a 
fever.' 

'  At  any  rate,  it  did  not,'  said  Albinia. 

'  Oh  !  and,  dear  mamma,  Mrs.  Osborn  is  so  hurt  that 
you  called  on  Mrs.  Dusautoy  before  returning  her  visit ; 
and  Aunt  Maria  says  if  you  don't  call  to-day  you  will 
never  get  over  it,  and  she  says  that — ' 

1  What  business  has  Mrs.  Osborn  to  ask  whom  I 
called  on  1 '  exclaimed  Albinia,  impatiently. 

'  Because  Mrs.  Osborn  is  the  leading  lady  in  the 
town,'  said  Lucy.  '  She  told  Miss  Goldsmith  that  she  had 
no  notion  of  not  being  respected.' 

'  And  she  can't  bear  the  Dusautoys.  She  left  off  sub- 
scribing to  anything  when  they  came ;  and  he  behaved 
very  ill  to  the  Admiral  and  everybody  at  a  vestry- 
meeting.' 

'  I  shall  ask  your  papa  before  I  am  in  any  hurry  to  call 
on  the  Osborns  ! '  cried  Albinia  '  I  have  no  desire  to  be 
intimate  with  people  who  treat  their  clergyman  in  that 
way.' 

I  But  Mrs.  Osborn  is  quite  the  leader ! '  exclaimed 
Lucy.  '  They  keep  the  best  society  here.  So  many  fam- 
ilies in  the  county  come  and  call  on  them.' 

<  Very  likely—' 

'  Ah  !  Mrs.  Osborn  told  Aunt  Maria  that  as  the  Nu- 
gents  called  on  you,  and  you  had  such  connexions,  she 
supposed  you  would  be  high.  But  you  won't  make  me 
separate  from  Lizzie,  will  you  1  I  suppose  Miss  Nugent 
is  a  fashionable  young  lady.' 

*  Miss  Nugent  is  five  years  old.  Don't  let  us  have 
any  more  of  this  nonsense.' 

'  But  you  won't  part  me  from  Lizzie  Osborn,'  said 
Lucy,  hanging  her  head  pathetically  on  one  side. 

I I  shall  talk  to  your  father.  He  said,  the  other  day, 
he  did  not  wish  you  to  be  so  much  with  her.' 

Lucy  melted  into  tears,  and  Albinia  was  conscious  of 
having  been  first  indiscreet  and  then  sharp,  hurt  at  the 
comments,  feeling  injured    by   Lucy's  evident   habit  of 
3* 


58  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

reporting  whatever  she  said,  and  at  the  failure  of  the 
attempt  to  please  Mrs.  Meadows.  She  was  so  uneasy 
about  the  Osborn  question,  that  she  waylaid  Mr.  Kendal 
on  his  return  from  riding,  and  laid  it  before  him. 

'  My  dear  Albinia,'  he  said,  as  if  he  would  fain  have 
avoided  the  appeal,  '  you  must  manage  your  own  visiting 
affairs  your  own  way.  I  do  not  wish  to  offend  my  neigh- 
bours, nor  would  I  desire  to  be  very  intimate  with  any 
one.  I  suppose  you  must  pay  them  ordinary  civility,  and 
you  know  what  that  amounts  to.  As  to  the  leadership  in 
society  here,  she  is  a  noisy  woman,  full  of  pretension,  and 
thus  always  arrogates  the  distinction  to  herself.  Your 
claims  will  establish  themselves.' 

'  Oh,  you  don't  imagine  me  thinking  of  that ! '  cried 
Albinia,  laughing.  '  I  meant  their  behaving  ill  to  Mr. 
Dusautoy.' 

'  I  know  nothing  about  that.  Mr.  Dusautoy  once 
called  to  ask  for  my  support  for  a  vestry  meeting,  but  I 
make  it  a  rule  never  to  meddle  with  parish  skirmishes. 
I  believe  there  was  a  very  unbecoming  scene,  and  that 
Mr.  Dusautoy  was  in  the  minority.' 

'  Ah,  Edmund,  next  time  you'll  see  if  a  parson's  sister 
can  sit  quietly  by  to  see  the  parson  beaten  ! ' 

He  smiled,  and  moved  towards  his  study. 

<  Then  I  am  to  be  civil  ?  ' 

<  Certainly.' 

1  But  is  it  necessary  to  call  to-day  %  ' 

'  I  should  suppose  not  ; '  and  there  he  was,  shut  up  in 
his  den.  Albinia  went  back,  between  laughing  and  vexa- 
tion ;  and  Lucy  looked  up  from  her  exercise  to  say, 
1  Does  papa  say  you  must  call  on  the  Osborns  1 ' 

It  was  undignified  !  She  bit  her  lip,  and  felt  her  false 
position,  as  with  a  quiver  of  the  voice  she  replied,  '  We 
shall  make  nothing  but  mischief  if  we  talk  now.  Go  on 
with  your  business.' 

The  sharp,  curious  eyes  did  not  take  themselves  off 
her  face.  She  leant  over  Sophy,  who  was  copying  a 
house,  told  her  the  lines  were  slanting,  took  the  pencil 
from  her  hand,  and  tried  to  correct  them,  but  found  her- 
self making  them  over  black,  and  shaky.     She  had  not 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  59 

seen  such  a  line  since  the  days  of  her  childhood's  ill-tem- 
per. She  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  said,  *  I  am  going 
to  call  on  Mrs.  Osborn  to-day.  Not  that  your  father  de- 
sires it,  but  because  I  have  been  indulging  in  a  wrong 
feeling.' 

'  I'm  sure  you  needn't,'  cried  Gilbert.  '  It  is  very 
impertinent  of  Mrs.  Osborn.  Why,  if  he  is  an  admiral, 
she  was  the  daughter  of  an  old  lieutenant  of  the  marines, 
and  you  are  General  Sir  Maurice  Ferrars'  first  cousin. 

'  Hush,  hush,  Gilbert ! '  said  Albinia,  blushing  and 
distressed.  '  Mrs.  Osborn's  standing  in  the  place  entitles 
her  to  all  attention.  I  was  thinking  of  nothing  of  the 
kind.  It  was  because  I  gave  way  to  a  wrong  feeling  that 
I  mean  to  go  this  afternoon.' 

On  the  Sunday,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal  went  to 
pay  their  weekly  visit  to  Mrs.  Meadows,  they  found  the 
old  lady  taking  a  turn  in  the  garden.  And  as  they  were 
passing  by  the  screen  of  laurels,  Gilbert's  voice  was  heard 
very  loud,  '  That's  too  bad,  Lucy  !  Grandmamma,  don't 
believe  one  word  of  it ! ' 

'  Gilbert,  you — you  are,  I'm  sure,  very  rude  to  your 
sister.' 

'  I'll  not  stand  to  hear  false  stories  of  Mrs.  Kendal !  • 

1  What  is  all  this  % '  said  Mr.  Kendal,  suddenly  ap- 
pearing, and  discovering  Gilbert  pirouetting  with  indigna- 
tion before  Lucy. 

Miss  Meadows  burst  out  with  a  shower  of  half  sen- 
tences, grandmamma  begged  that  no  notice  might  be  taken 
of  the  children's  nonsense,  Lucy  put  on  an  air  of  injured 
innocence,  and  Gilbert  was  beginning  to  speak,  but  his 
father  put  him  aside,  saying,  '  Tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened, Sophia.  From  you  I  am  certain  of  hearing  the 
exact  truth.' 

1  Only,'  growled  Sophy,  in  her  hoarse  boy's  voice, 
'  Lucy  said  mamma  said  she  would  not  call  on  Mrs.  Os- 
born unless  you  ordered  her,  and  when  you  did,  she  cried 
and  flew  into  a  tremendous  passion.' 

4  Sophy,  what  a  story,'  exclaimed  Lucy,  but  Gilbert 
was  ready  to  corroborate  his  younger  sister's  report. 

*  You  know  Lucy  too  well  to  attach  any  importance 


60  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEB. 

to  her  misrepresentations,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Meadows,  '  but  I  know  not  what  amends  she  can 
make  for  this  most  unprovoked  slander.  Speak,  Lucy, 
have  you  no  apology  to  make  ? ' 

For  Lucy,  in  self-defence,  had  begun  to  cry,  and  her 
grandmother  seemed  much  disposed  to  do  the  same. 
Miss  Meadows  had  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  incoherences  on 
her  lips.  The  distress  drove  away  all  Albinia's  inclina- 
tion to  laugh,  and  clasping  her  two  hands  over  her  hus- 
band's arm,  she  said,  '  Don't,  Edmund,  it  is  only  a  mis- 
understanding of  what  really  happened.  I  did  have  a 
silly  fit,  you  know,  so  it  is  my  fault.' 

1 1  cannot  forgive  for  you  as  you  do  for  yourself,'  said 
Mr.  Kendal,  with  a  look  that  was  precious  to  her,  though 
it  might  have  given  a  pang  to  the  Meadowses.  '  I  did 
not  imagine  that  my  daughter  could  be  so  lost  to  the 
sense  of  your  kindness  and  forbearance.  Have  you  noth- 
ing to  say,  Lucy  ? ' 

'  Poor  child !  she  cannot  .speak,'  said  her  grandmother. 
'  You  see  she  is  very  sorry,  and  Mrs.  Kendal  is  too  kind 
to  wish  to  say  any  more  about  it.' 

'  Go  home  at  once,  Lucy,'  said  her  father.  '  Perhaps 
solitude  may  bring  you  to  a  better  state  of  feeling.    Go  ! ' 

Direct  resistance  to  Mr.  Kendal  was  never  thought 
of,  and  Lucy  turned  to  go.  Her  aunt  chose  to  accompany 
her ;  and  though  this  was  a  decided  relief  to  the  company 
she  left,  it  was  not  likely  to  be  the  best  thing  for  the 
young  lady  herself. 

Mr.  Kendal  gave  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Meadows,  saying 
gravely  that  Lucy  must  not  be  encouraged  in  her  habit 
of  gossiping  and  inaccuracy.  Mrs.  Meadows  quite  agreed 
with  him ;  it  was  a  very  bad  habit  for  a  girl,  she  was 
very  sorry  for  it,  she  wished  she  could  have  attended  to 
the  dear  children  better,  but  she  was  sure  dear  Mrs.  Ken- 
dal would  make  them  everything  desirable.  She  only 
hoped  that  she  would  remember  their  disadvantages,  have 
patience,  and  not  recollect  this  against  poor  Lucy. 

The  warm  indignation  and  championship  of  her  hus- 
band and  his  son  were  what  Albinia  chiefly  wished  to 
recollect ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  free  herself  from  a 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-HOTHEE.  61 

sense  of  pain  and  injury  in  the  knowledge  that  she  lived 
wkh  a  spy  who  would  exaggerate  and  colour  every  care- 
less word. 

Mr.  Kendal  returned  to  the  subject  as  they  walked 
home.  '  I  hope  you  will  talk  seriously  to  Lucy  about  her 
intolerable  gossiping,'  he  said.  '  There  is  no  safety  in 
mentioning  any  subject  before  her ;  and  Maria  Meadows 
makes  her  worse.     Some  stop  must  be  put  to  it.' 

'  I  should  like  to  wait  till  next  time,'  said  Albinia. 

'  What  do  you  mean  %  ' 

'  Because  this  is  too  personal  to  myself.' 

1  Nay,  your  own  candour  is  an  example  to  which  Lucy 
can  hardly  be  insensible.  Besides,  it  is  a  nuisance,  which 
must  be  abated.' 

Albinia  could  not  help  thinking  that  he  suffered  from 
it  as  little  as  most  people,  and  wondering  whether  it 
were  this  which  had  taught  him  silence. 

They  met  Miss  Meadows  at  their  own  gate,  and  she 
told  them  that  dear  Lucy  was  very  sorry,  and  she  hoped 
they  would  take  no  more  notice  of  a  little  nonsense  that 
could  do  no  one  any  harm ;  she  would  be  more  on  her 
guard  next  time. 

Mr.  Kendal  made  no  answer.  Albinia  ventured  to 
ask  him  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  leave  it,  since 
her  aunt  had  talked  to  her. 

i  No,'  he  said  ;  '  Maria  has  no  influence  whatever  with 
the  children.  She  frets  them  by  using  too  many  words 
about  everything.  One  quiet  remonstrance  from  you 
would  have  far  more  effect.' 

Albinia  called  the  culprit  and  tried  to  reason  with 
her.  Lucy  tried  at  first  to  battle  it  off  by  saying  that  she 
had  made  a  mistake,  and  Aunt  Maria  had  said  that  she 
should  hear  no  more  about  it.  '  But,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid 
you  must  hear  more.  It  is  not  that  I  am  hurt,  but  your 
papa  has  desired  me  to  talk  to  you.  You  would  be 
frightened  to  hear  what  he  says.' 

Lucy  chose  to  hear,  and  seemed  somewhat  struck,  but 
she  was  sure  that  she  meant  no  harm  ;  and  she  had  a 
great  deal  to  say  for  herself,  so  voluble  and  so  inconse- 
quent, that  argument  was  breath  spent  in  vain  ;  and  Al- 


62  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

binia  was  obliged  to  wind  up,  as  an  ultimatum,  with 
warning  her,  that  till  she  should  prove  herself  trust- 
worthy, nothing  interesting  would  be  talked  of  before 
her. 

The  atmosphere  of  gossip  certainly  had  done  its  part 
in  cultivating  Mr.  Kendal's  talent  for  silence.  When  Al- 
binia  had  him  all  to  herself,  he  was  like  another  person, 
and  the  long  drives  to  return  visits  in  the  country  were 
thoroughly  enjoyable.  So,  too,  were  the  walks  home  from 
the  dinner  parties  in  the  town,  when  the  husband  and 
wife  lingered  in  the  starlight  or  moonlight,  and  felt  that 
the  weary  gaiety  of  the  constrained  evening  was  made 
up  for. 

Great  was  the  offence  they  gave  by  not  taking  out  the 
carriage ! 

It  was  disrespect  to  Bay  ford,  and  one  of  the  airs  of 
which  Mrs.  Kendal  was  accused.  As  granddaughter  of  a 
baron,  daughter  of  one  General  Officer,  and  sister  of  an- 
other, and  presented  at  Court,  the  Bay  ford  ladies  were 
prepared  to  consider  her  a  fine  lady  ;  and  when  they 
found  her  peculiarly  simple,  were  the  more  aggrieved,  as 
if  her  contempt  were  ironically  veiled.  Her  walks,  her 
dress,  her  intercourse  with  »the  clergy,  were  all  airs,  and 
Lucy  spared  her  none  of  the  remarks.  Albinia  might 
say,  '  Don't  tell  me  all  Aunt  Maria  says,'  but  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  listen  ;  and  whether  in  mirth  or  vexation, 
she  was  sure  to  be  harmed  by  what  she  heard. 

And  yet,  except  for  the  tale-bearing,  Lucy  was  really 
giving  less  trouble  than  her  sister ;  she  was  quick,  ob- 
servant, and  obliging,  and  under  Albinia's  example,  the 
more  salient  vulgarities  of  speech  and  manner  were  fall- 
ing off.  There  had  seldom  been  any  collision,  since  it 
had  become  evident  that  Mrs.  Kendal  could  and  would 
hold  her  own  ;  and  that  her  address  and  air,  even  while 
criticised,  were  regarded  as  something  superior,  so  that  it 
was  a  distinction  to  belong  to  her.  How  many  of  poor 
Albi uia's  so-called  airs  should  justly  have  been  laid  to 
Lucy's  account ! 

On  the  other  hand,  Sophy  would  attend  to  a  word 
from  her  father,  where  she  had  obstinately  opposed  her 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  63 

step-mother's  wishes,  making  her  obedience  marked,  as  if 
for  the  very  purpose  of  enforcing  the  contrast.  It  was  a 
character  that  Albinia  could  not  as  yet  fathom.  In  all 
occupations  and  amusements,  Sophy  followed  the  lead  of 
her  elder  sister,  and  in  her  lessons,  her  sole  object  seemed 
to  be  to  get  things  done  with  as  little  trouble  as  possible, 
and  especially  without  setting  her  mind  to  work  ;  and 
yet  in  the  very  effort  to  escape  diligence  or  exertion,  she 
sometimes  showed  signs  of  so  much  ability  as  to  excite  a 
longing  desire  to  know  of  what  she  would  be  capable 
when  once  aroused  and  interested ;  but  the  surly,  ungra- 
cious temper  rendered  this  apparently  impossible,  and 
whatever  Albinia  attempted,  was  sure,  as  if  for  the  very 
reason  that  it  came  from  her,  to  be  answered  with  a  re- 
doubling of  the  growl  of  that  odd  hoarse  voice. 

On  Lucy's  birthday  there  was  an  afternoon  party  of 
her  young  friends,  including  Miss  Durant.  Albinia,  who, 
among  the  girlhood  of  Fairmead  and  its  neighbourhood, 
had  been  so  acceptable  a  playmate,  that  her  marriage  had 
caused  the  outcry  that  '  there  would  never  be  any  fun 
again  without  Miss  Ferrars,'  came  out  on  the  lawn  with 
the  girls,  in  hopes  of  setting  them  to  enjoy  themselves. 
But  they  looked  at  her  almost  suspiciously,  retained  their 
cold,  stiff,  company  manners,  and  drew  apart  into  giggling 
knots.  She  relieved  them  of  her  presence,  and  sitting  by 
the  window,  watched  Genevieve  walking  up  and  down 
alone,  as  if  no  one  cared  to  join  her.  Presently  Lucy  and 
Lizzie  Osborn  spoke  to  her,  and  she  went  in.  Albinia 
went  to  meet  her  in  the  hall ;  she  coloured  and  said, '  She 
was  only  come  to  fetch  Miss  Osborn's  cloak.' 

Albinia  saw  her  disposing  it  over  Lizzie's  shoulders, 
and  then  running  in  again.  This  time  it  was  for  Miss 
Louisa's  cloak,  and  a  third  time  for  Miss  Drury's  shawl, 
which  Albinia  chose  to  take  out  herself,  and  encountering 
Sophia,  said,  '  Next  time,  you  had  better  run  on  errands 
yourself  instead  of  sending  your  guests.' 

Sophy  gave  a  black  look,  and  she  retreated,  but  pres- 
ently the  groups  coalesced,  and  Maria  Drury  and  Sophy 
ran  out  to  call  Genevieve  into  the  midst.  Albinia  hoped 
they  were  going  to  play,  but  soon  she  beheld  Genevieve 


64  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

trying  to  draw  back,  but  evidently  imprisoned ;  there 
was  an  echo  of  a  laugh  that  she  did  not  like  ;  the  younger 
girls  were  skipping  up  in  the  victim's  face  in  a  rude  way  ; 
she  hastily  turned  round  as  in  indignation,  one  hand 
raised  to  her  eyes,  but  it  was  instantly  snatched  down  by 
Maria  Drury,  and  the  pitiless  ring  closed  in.  Albinia 
sprang  to  her  feet,  exclaiming  aloud,  '  They  are  teazing 
her  ! '  and  rushed  into  the  garden,  hearing  on  her  way, 
'  No,  we  won't  let  you  go  ! — you  shall  tell  us — you  shall 
promise  to  show  us — my  papa  is  a  magistrate,  you  know 
— he'll  come  and  search — Jenny,  you  shall  tell ! ' 

1  Come  with  me,  Genevieve,'  said  Albinia,  standing 
in  the  midst  of  the  tormentors,  and  launching  a  look  of 
wrath  around  her,  as  she  saw  tears  in  the  young  girl's 
eyes,  and  taking  her  hand,  found  it  trembling  with  agita- 
tion. Fondling  it  with  both  her  own,  she  led  Genevieve 
away,  turning  her  back  upon  Lucy  and  her,  '  We  were 
only—' 

The  poor  girl  shook  more  and  more,  and  when  they 
reached  the  shelter  of  the  house,  gave  way  to  a  tightened, 
oppressed  sob  ;  and  at  the  first  kind  words  a  shower  of 
tears  followed,  and  she  took  Albinia's  hand,  and  clasped 
it  to  her  breast  in  a  manner  embarrassing  to  English 
feelings,  though  perfectly  natural  and  sincere  in  her.  '  Ah  ! 
si  bonne  P  si  bonne!  pardonnez-moi,  Madame ! ''  she  ex- 
claimed, sobbing,  and  probably  not  knowing  that  she  was 
speaking  French  ;  '  but,  oh,  Madame,  you  will  tell  me  ! 
Is  it  true — can  he  ?  ' 

'  Can  who  ?     What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  % ' 

'  The  Admiral,'  said  Genevieve,  looking  about  fright- 
ened, and  sinking  her  voice  to  a  whisper.  '  Miss  Louisa 
said  so,  that  he  could  send  and  search — ' 

'  Search  for  what,  my  dear  ? ' 

'  For  my  poor  little  secret.  Ah,  Madame,  assuredly 
I  may  tell  you.  It  is  but  a  French  Bible  ;  it  belonged  to 
my  martyred  ancestor,  Francois  Durant,  who  perished 
at  the  St.  Barthelemi — it  is  stained  with  his  blood — it 
has  been  handed  on  from  one  to  the  other — it  was  all 
that  Jacques  Durant  rescued  when  he  fled  from  the  Dra- 
gonnades — it  was  given  to  me  by  my  own  dear  father  on 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  65 

his  death-bed,  with  a  charge  to  keep  it  from  my  grand- 
mother, and  not  to  speak  of  it — but  to  guard  it  as  my 
greatest  treasure.  And  now — Oh,  I  am  not  disobeying 
him,'  cried  Genevieve,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  tears.  '  You 
can  feel  for  me,  Madame,  you  can  counsel  me.  Can  the 
magistrates  come  and  search,  unless  I  confess  to  those 
young  ladies  % ' 

'  Most  decidedly  not,'  said  Albinia.  '  Set  your  mind 
at  rest,  my  poor  child ;  whoever  threatened  you  played 
you  a  most  base,  cruel  trick.' 

1  Ah,  do  not  be  angry  with  them,  Madame  ;  no  doubt 
they  were  in  sport.  They  could  not  know  how  precious 
that  treasure  was  to  me,  and  they  will  say  much  in  their 
gaiety  of  heart.' 

'  I  do  not  like  such  gaiety,'  said  Albinia.  '  What,  they 
wished  to  make  you  confess  your  secret  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  They  had  learnt  by  some  means  that  I  keep 
one  of  my  drawers  locked,  and  they  had  figured  to  them- 
selves that  in  it  was  some  relic  of  my  Huguenot  ancestors. 
They  thought  it  was  some  instrument  of  death,  and  they 
said  that  unless  I  would  tell  them  the  whole,  the  Admiral 
had  the  right  of  search,  and,  oh  !  it  was  foolish  of  me  to 
believe  them  for  a  moment,  but  I  only  thought  that  the 
fright  would  kill  my  grandmother.  Oh,  you  were  so 
good,  Madame,  I  shall  never  forget ;  no,  not  to  the  end 
of  my  life,  how  you  rescued  me ! ' 

'  We  did  not  bring  you  here  to  be  teazed,'  said  Al- 
binia, caressing  her.  '  I  should  like  to  ask  your  pardon 
for  what  they  have  made  you  undergo.' 

1  Ah,  Madame  ! '  said  Genevieve,  smiling,  '  it  is  noth- 
ing. I  am  well  used  to  the  like,  and  I  heed  it  little,  ex- 
cept when  it  falls  on  such  subjects  as  these.' 

She  was  easily  drawn  into  telling  the  full  history  of 
her  treasure,  as  she  had  learnt  from  her  father's  lips ;  the 
Huguenot  shot  down  by  the  persecutors,  and  the  son  who 
had  fled  into  the  mountains  and  returned  to  bury  the 
corpse,  and  take  the  prized,  blood-stained  Bible  from  the 
breast ;  the  escapes  and  dangers  of  the  two  next  genera- 
tions ;  the  few  succeeding  days  of  peace  ;  and,  finally,  the 
Dragonnade,  when  the  children  had  been  snatched  from 


66  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

the  Durant  family,  and  the  father  and  mother  had  been 
driven  at  length  to  fly  in  utter  destitution,  and  had  made 
their  way  to  England  in  a  wretched,  unpruvisioned  open 
boat.  The  child  for  whose  sake  they  fled,  was  the  only 
one  rescued  from  the  hands  of  these  enemies,  and  the  tra- 
dition of  their  sufferings  had  been  handed  on  with  the 
faithfully  preserved  relic,  down  to  the  slender  girl,  their 
sole  descendant,  and  who  in  early  childhood  had  drunk  in 
the  tale  from  the  lips  of  her  father.  The  child  of  the  per- 
secutors  and  of  the  persecuted,  Genevieve  Durant  did 
indeed  represent  strangely  the  history  of  her  ancestral 
country  ;  and  as  Albinia  said  to  her,  surely  it  might  be 
hoped  that  the  faith  in  which  she  had  been  bred  up,  united 
what  was  true  and  sound  in  the  religion  of  both  Reformed 
and  Romanist. 

The  words  made  the  brown  cheek  glow.  ;  Ah, 
Madame,  did  I  not  say  I  could  talk  with  you  ?  You  who 
do  not  think  me  a  heretic,  as  my  dear  grandmother's 
friends  do,  and  who  yet  can  respect  my  grandmother's 
Church.' 

Assuredly  little  Genevieve  was  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting and  engaging  persons  that  Albinia  had  ever  met, 
and  she  listened  earnestly  to  her  artless  history,  and 
pretty  enthusiasms,  and  the  story  which  she  could  not 
tell  without  tears,  of  her  father's  care,  when  the  reward 
of  her  good  behaviour  had  been  the  reading  one  verse  in 
the  quaint  black  letter  of  the  old  French  Bible. 

The  conversation  lasted  till  Gilbert  made  his  appear- 
ance, and  Albinia  was  glad  to  find  that  his'  greeting  to 
Genevieve  was  cordial  and  affectionate,  and  free  from  all 
that  was  unpleasant  in  his  sisters'  manner  ;  and  he  joined 
himself  to  their  company  when  Albinia  proposed  a  walk 
along  the  broad  causeway  through  the  meadows.  It  was 
one  of  the  pleasantest  walks  that  she  had  taken  at  Bay- 
ford,  with  both  her  companions  so  bright  and  merry,  and 
the  scene  around  in  all  the  beauty  of  spring.  Gilbert, 
with  the  courtesy  that  Albinia's  very  presence  had  infused 
into  him,  gathered  a  pretty  wild  bouquet  for  each,  and  Al- 
binia talked  of  cowslip-balls,  and  found  that  neither  Gil- 
bert nor  Genevieve  had  ever  seen  one ;  then  she  pitied 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-ilOTHEE.  67 

them,  and  owned  that  she  did  not  ^now  how  to  get 
through  a  spring  without  one  ;  and  Gilbert  having  of 
course  a  pocketful  of  string,  a  delicious  ball  was  con- 
structed, over  which  Genevieve  went  into  an  inexpressible 
ecstasy. 

All  the  evening,  Gilbert  devoted  himself  to  Genevieve, 
though  more  than  one  of  the  others  tried  to  attract  him, 
playing  off  the  follies  of  more  advanced  girlhood,  to  the 
vexation  of  Albinia,  who  could  not  bear  to  see  him  the 
centre  of  attention  to  silly  girls,  when  he  ought  to  have 
been  finding  his  level  among  boys. 

1  Gilbert  makes  himself  so  ridiculous  about  Jenny 
Durant,'  said  his  sisters,  when  he  insisted  on  escorting 
her  home,  and  thus  they  brought  on  themselves  Albinia's 
pent-up  indignation  at  their  usage  of  their  guest.  Lucy 
argued  in  unsatisfactory  self-defence,  but  Sophy,  when 
shown  how  ungenerous  her  conduct  had  been,  crimsoned 
deeply,  and  though  uttering  no  word  of  apology,  wore  a 
look  that  gave  her  step-mother,  for  the  first  time,  a  hope 
that  her  sullenness  might  not  be  so  much  from  want  of 
compunction,  as  from  want  of  power  to  express  it. 

Oh  !  for  a  consultation  with  her  brother.  But  he 
and  his  wife  were  taking  a  holiday  among  their  kindred 
in  Ireland,  and  for  once  Albinia  could  have  echoed  the 
aunts'  lamentation  that  Winifred  had  so  many  relations. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Albinia  needed  patience  to  keep  alive  hope  and  en- 
ergy, for  a  sore  disappointment  awaited  her.  Whatever 
had  been  her  annoyances  with  the  girls,  she  had  always 
been  on  happy  and  comfortable  terms  with  Gilbert;  he 
had  responded  to  her  advances,  accommodated  himself  to 
her  wishes,  adopted  her  tastes,  and  returned  her  affection. 
She  had  early  perceived  that  his  father  and  sisters  looked 
on  him  as  the  naughty  one  of  the  family,  but  when  she 
saw  Lucy's  fretting  interference,  and  Sophia's  wrangling 


68  THE   YOUXG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

contempt,  she  did  not  wonder  that  an  unjust  degree  of 
blame  had  often  fallen  to  his  share ;  and  under  her  man- 
agement, he  scarcely  ever  gave  cause  for  complaint.  That 
he  was  evidently  happier  and  better  for  her  presence,  was 
compensation  for  many  a  vexation ;  she  loved  him  with 
all  her  heart,  made  fun  with  him,  told  legends  of  the 
freaks  of  her  brother  Maurice  and  cousin  Fred,  and 
grudged  no  trouble  for  his  pleasure. 

As  long  as  The  Three  Musqueteers  lasted,  he  had 
come  constantly  to  her  dressing-room,  and  afterwards  she 
promised  to  find  other  pleasant  reading ;  but  after  such 
excitement,  it  was  not  easy  to  find  anything  that  did  not 
appear  dry.  As  the  daughter  of  a  Peninsular  man,  she 
thought  nothing  so  charming  as  the  Subaltern,  and  Gilbert 
seemed  to  enjoy  it ;  but  by  the  time  he  had  heard  all  her 
oral  traditions  of  the  war  by  way  of  notes,  his  attendance 
began  to  slacken  ;  he  stayed  out  later,  and  always  brought 
excuses — Mr.  Salsted  had  kept  him,  he  had  been  with  a 
fellow,  or  his  pony  had  lost  a  shoe.  Albinia  did  not  care 
to  question ;  the  evenings  were  light  and  warm,  and  the 
one  thing  she  desired  for  him  was  manly  exercise ;  she 
thought  it  much  better  for  him  to  be  at  play  with  his  fel- 
low-pupils, and  she  could  not  regret  the  gain  of  another 
hour  to  her  hurried  day. 

One  morning,  however,  Mr.  Kendal  called  her,  and  his 
look  was  so  grave  and  perturbed,  that  she  hardly  waited 
till  the  door  was  shut  to  ask  in  terror,  what  could  be  the 
matter. 

1  Nothing  to  alarm  you,'  he  said.  '  It  is  only  that  I 
am  vexed  about  Gilbert.  I  have  reason  to  fear  that  he  is 
deceiving  us  again ;  and  I  want  you  to  help  us  to  recollect 
on  which  days  he  should  have  been  at  Tremblam.  My 
dear,  do  not  look  so  pale  ! ' 

For  Albinia  had  turned  quite  white  at  hearing  that 
the  boy,  on  whom  she  had  fixed  her  warm  affection,  had 
been  carrying  on  a  course  of  falsehood  ;  but  a  moment's 
hope  restored  her.  '  I  did  keep  him  at  home  on  Tuesday,' 
she  said  ;  '  it  was  so  very  hot,  and  he  had  a  headache.  I 
thought  I  might.  You  told  me  not  to  send  him  on  doubt- 
ful days.' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  69 

'  I  hope  you  may  be  able  to  make  out  that  it  is  right,' 
said  Mr.  Kendal ;  '  but  I  am  afraid  that  Mr.  Salsted  has 
too  much  cause  of  complaint.     It  is  the  old  story  ! ' 

And  so  indeed  it  proved,  when  Albinia  heard  what  the 
tutor  had  come  to  say.  The  boy  was  seldom  in  time, 
often  altogether  missing,  excusing  himself  by  saying  he 
was  kept  at  home  by  fears  of  the  weather  ;  but  Mr.  Sal- 
sted was  certain  that  his  father  could  not  know  how  he 
disposed  of  his  time,  namely,  in  a  low  style  of  sporting 
with  young  Tritton,  the  son  of  a  rich  farmer  or  half-gen- 
tleman, who  was  the  pest  of  Mr.  Salsted's  parish.  Ill- 
learnt,  slurred-over  lessons,  with  lame  excuses,  were  noth- 
ing as  compared  with  this,  and  the  amount  of  petty  deceit, 
subterfuge,  and  falsehood,  was  frightful,  especially  when 
Albinia  recollected  the  tone  of  thought  which  the  boy  had 
seemed  to  be  catching  from  her.  Unused  to  duplicity, 
except  from  mere  ignorant,  unmanageable  school-children, 
she  was  excessively  shocked,  and  felt  as  if  he  must  be 
utterly  lost  to  all  good,  and  had  been  acting  a  lie  from 
first  to  last.  After  the  conviction  had  broken  on  her,  she 
hardly  spoke,  while  Mr.  Kendal  was  promising  to  talk  to 
his  son,  threaten  him  with  severe  punishment,  and  keep  a 
strict  account  of  his  comings  and  goings,  to  be  compared 
weekly  with  Mr.  Salsted's  notes  of  his  arrival.  This  set- 
tled, the  tutor  departed,  and  no  sooner  was  he  gone,  than 
Albinia,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  shed  tears  of  bitter 
grief  and  disappointment.  '  My  dearest,'  said  her  hus- 
band, fondly,  '  you  must  not  let  my  boy's  doings  grieve 
you  in  this  manner.  You  have  been  doing  your  utmost 
for  him  ;  if  any  one  could  do  him  good,  it  would  be  you.' 

'  O  no,  surely  I  must  have  made  some  dreadful  mis- 
take, to  have  promoted  such  faults.' 

'  No,  I  have  long  known  him  not  to  be  trustworthy. 
It  is  an  evil  of  long  standing.' 

'  Was  it  always  so  1 ' 

'  I  cannot  tell,'  said  he,  sitting  down  beside  her,  and 
shading  his  brow  with  one  hand ;  '  I  have  only  been 
aware  of  it  since  he  has  been  left  alone.  When  the  twins 
were  together,  they  were  led  by  one  soul  of  truth  and 
generosity.     What  this  poor  fellow  was  separately  no 


70  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

one  could  know,  while  he  had  his  brother  to  guide  and 
shield  him.  The  first  time  I  noticed  the  evil  was  when 
we  were  recovering.  Gilbert  and  Sophia  were  left  to- 
gether, and  in  one  of  their  quarrels  injured  some  papers 
of  mine.  I  was  very  weak,  and  had  little  power  of  self- 
control  ;  I  believe  1  terrified  him  too  much.  There  was 
absolute  falsehood,  and  the  truth  was  only  known  by 
Sophia's  coming  forward  and  confessing-  the  whole.  It 
was  ill  managed.  I  was  not  equal  to  dealing  with  him, 
and  whether  the  mischief  began  then  or  earlier,  it  has 
gone  on  ever  since,  breaking  out  every  now  and  then.  I 
had  hoped  that  with  your  care —  But  oh  !  how  different 
it  would  have  been  with  his  brother  !  Albinia,  what 
would  I  not  give  that  you  had  but  seen  him!  Not  a 
fault  was  there  ;  not  a  moment's  grief  did  he  give  us,  till 
—  O  what  an  overthrow  of  hope  ! '  And  he  gave  way 
to  an  excess  of  grief  that  quite  appalled  her,  and  made 
her  feel  herself  powerless  to  comfort.  She  only  ventured 
a  few  words  of  peace  and  hope  ;  but  the  contrast  between 
the  brothers  was  just  then  keen  agony,  and  he  could  not 
help  exclaiming  how  strange  it  was,  that  Edmund  should 
be  the  one  to  be  taken. 

'  Nay,'  she  said,  '  was  not  he  ripe  for  better  things  ? 
May  not  poor  Gilbert  have  been  spared  that  longer  life 
may  train  him  to  be  like  his  brother  %  ' 

1  He  never  will  be  like  him,'  cried  Mr.  Kendal.  '  No ! 
no  !  The  difference  is  evident  in  the  very  countenance 
and  features.' 

1  Was  he  like  you  ?  ' 

'They  said  so,  but  you  could  not  gather  an  idea  of 
him  from  me,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  smiling  mournfully,  as 
he  met  her  gaze.  '  It  was  the  most  beautiful  countenance 
I  ever  saw,  full  of  life  and  joy  ;  and  there  were  wonderful 
expressions  in  the  eyes  when  he  was  thinking  or  listening. 
He  used  to  read  the  Greek  Testament  with  me  every 
morning,  and  his  questions  and  remarks  rise  up  before 
me  again.     That  text —     You  have  seen  it  in  church.' 

1  Because  I  live,  ye  shall  live  also,'  Albinia  repeated. 

1  Yes.  A  little  before  his  illness  we  came  to  that. 
He  rested  on  it,  as  he  used  to  do  on  anything  that  struck 


THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  .  71 

him,  and  asked  me,  "  whether  it  meant  the  life  hereafter, 
or  the  life  that  is  hidden  here  !  "  We  went  over  it  with 
such  comments  as  I  could  find,  but  his  mind  was  not  sat- 
isfied ;  and  it  must  have  gone  on  working  on  it,  for  one 
night,  when  I  had  been  thinking  him  delirious,  he  called 
me,  and  the  light  shone  out  of  those  bright  dark  eyes  of 
his  as  he  said,  joyfully,  u  It  is  both,  papa  !  It  is  hidden 
here,  but  it  will  shine  out  there,"  and  as  I  did  not  catch 
his  meaning,  he  repeated  the  Greek  words.' 

1  Dear  boy  !  Some  day  we  shall  be  glad  that  the  full 
life  and  glory  came  so  soon.' 

He  shook  his  head,  the  parting  was  still  too  recent, 
and  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  able  to  speak  of  his 
son.  It  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  her  that  the  reserve 
had  once  been  broken ;  it  seemed  like  compensation  for 
the  present  trouble,  though  that  was  acutely  felt,  and  not 
softened  by  the  curious  eyes  and  leading  questions  of  the 
sisters,  when  she  returned  to  give  what  attention  she 
could  to  their  interrupted  lessons. 

Gilbert  returned,  unsuspicious  of  the  storm,  till  his 
fathers  stern  gravity,  and  her  depressed,  pre-occupied 
manner,  excited  his  attention,  and  he  asked  her  anxiously 
whether  anything  were  the  matter.  A  sad  gesture  re- 
plied, and  perhaps  revealed  the  state  of  the  case,  for  he 
became  absolutely  silent.  Albinia  left  them  together. 
She  watched  anxiously,  and  hurried  after  Mr.  Kenclal  into 
the  study,  where  his  manner  showed  her  not  to  be  un- 
welcome as  the  sharer  of  his  trouble.  '  I  do  not  know 
what  to  do,'  he  said,  dejectedly.  '  I  can  make  nothing  of 
him.  It  is  all  prevarication  and  sulkiness  I  I  do  not 
think  he  felt  one  word  that  I  said.' 

1  People  often  feel  more  than  they  show.' 

He  groaned. 

'Will  you  go  to  him1? 'he  presently  added.  'Per- 
haps I  grew  too  angry  at  last,  and  I  believe  he  loves  you. 
At  least,  if  he  do  not,  he  must  be  more  unfeeling  than  I 
can  think  him.     You  do  not  dislike  it,  dearest?  ' 

'  O  no,  no  !  If  I  only  knew  what  would  be  best  fur 
him!' 

'  He  may  be  more   unreserved  with  you,'  said  Mr. 


12  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE. 

Kendal ;  and  as  he  "was  anxious  for  her  to  make  the  at- 
tempt, she  moved  away,  though  in  perplexity,  and  in  the 
revulsion  of  feeling,  with  a  sort  of  disgust  towards  the 
boy  who  had  deceived  her  so  long. 

She  found  him  seated  on  a  wheelbarrow  by  the  pond, 
chucking  pebbles  into  the  still  black  water,  and  disturb- 
ing the  duck-weed  on  the  surface.  His  colour  was  gone, 
and  his  face  was  dark  and  moody,  and  strove  not  to 
relax,  as  she  said,  '  O  Gilbert,  how  could  you  1 ' 

He  turned  sharply  away,  muttering,  '  She  is  coming 
to  bother  now  ! ' 

It  cut  her  to  the  heart.  '  Gilbert ! '  was  all  she  could 
exclaim,  but  the  tone  of  pain  made  him  look  at  her,  as  if 
in  spite  of  himself,  and  as  he  saw  the  tears,  he  exclaimed 
in  an  impatient  voice  of  rude  consolation,  '  There's  noth- 
ing to  take  so  much  to  heart.  No  one  thinks  anything 
of  it!' 

'  What  would  Edmund  have  thought  ? '  said  Albinia ; 
but  the  appeal  came  too  soon  ;  he  made  an  angry  gesture 
and  said,  '  He  was  nearly  three  years  younger  than  I  am 
now  !    He  would  not  have  been  kept  in  these  abominable 

leading-strings.' 

She  was  too  much  shocked  to  find  an  answer,  and 
Gilbert  went  on,  '  Watched  and  examined  wherever  I  go 
— not  a  minute  to  myself — nothing  but  lessons  at  Trem- 
blam,  and  bother  at  home ;  driven  about  hither  and 
thither,  and  not  allowed  a  friend  of  my  own,  nor  to  do 
one  single  thing  !     There's  no  standing  it,  and  I  won't ! ' 

1 1  am  very  sorry,'  said  Albinia,  struggling  with  chok- 
ing tears.  '  It  has  been  my  great  wish  to  make  things 
pleasant  to  you.  I  hone  I  have  not  teazed  or  driven  you 
to—' 

1  Nonsense  ! '  exclaimed  Gilbert,  disrespectfully  in- 
deed, but  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  and  breaking  at 
once  into  a  flood  of  tears.  '  You  are  the  only  creature 
that  has  been  kind  to  me  since  I  lost  my  brother  Ned, 
and  now  they  have  been  and  turned  you  against  me  too  ; ' 
and  he  sobbed  violently. 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Gilbert.  If  I  stand  in 
your  mother's  place  I  can't  be  turned  against  you,  any 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  73 

more  than  she  could  ; '  and  she  stroked  his  brow,  which 
she  found  so  throbbing  as  to  account  for  his  paleness. 
'  You  can  grieve  and  hurt  me,  but  you  can't  prevent  me 
from  feeling  for  you,  nor  for  your  dear  father's  grief.' 

He  declared  that  people  at  home  knew  nothing  about 
boys,  and  made  an  uproar  about  nothing. 

1  Do  you  call  falsehood  nothing  ? ' 

'  Falsehood !  A  mere  trifle  now  and  then,  when  I  am 
driven  to  it  by  being  kept  so  strictly.' 

1  I  don't  know  how  to  talk  to  you,  Gilbert,'  said  Al- 
binia,  rising ;  '  your  conscience  knows  better  than  your 
tongue.' 

i  Don't  go  ; '  and  he  went  off  into  another  paroxysm 
of  crying,  as  he  caught  hold  of  her  dress  ;  and  when  he 
spoke  again  his  mood  was  changed  ;  he  was  very  miser- 
able, nobody  cared  for  him,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do ; 
he  wanted  to  do  right,  and  to  please  her,  but  Archie  Trit- 
ton  would  not  let  him  alone ;  he  wished  he  had  never 
seen  Archie  Tritton.  At  last,  walking  up  and  down  with 
him,  she  drew  from  him  a  full  confidence,  and  began  to 
understand  how,  when  health  and  strength  had  come  back 
to  him  in  greater  measure  than  he  had  ever  before  en- 
joyed, the  craving  for  boyish  sports  had  awakened,  just 
after  he  had  been  deprived  of  his  brother,  and  was  de- 
barred from  almost  every  wholesome  manner  of  gratify- 
ing it.  To  fall  in  with  young  Tritton  was  as  great  a  mis- 
fortune as  could  well  have  befallen  a  boy,  with  a  dreary 
home,  melancholy,  reserved  father,  and  wearisome  aunt. 
Tritton  was  a  youth  of  seventeen,  who  had  newly  finished 
his  education  at  an  inferior  commercial  school,  and  lived 
on  his  father's  farm,  giving  himself  the  airs  of  a  sporting 
character,  and  fast  hurrying  into  dissipation. 

He  was  really  good-natured,  and  Gilbert  dwelt  on  his 
kindness  with  warmth  and  gratitude,  and  on  his  prowess 
in  all  sporting  accomplishments  with  a  perfect  efferves- 
cence of  admiration.  He  evidently  patronized  Gilbert, 
partly  from  good-natured  pity,  and  partly  as  flattered  by 
the  adherence  of  a  boy  of  a  grade  above  him  ;  and  Gil- 
bert was  proud  of  the  notice  of  one  who  seemed  to  him  a 
man,  and  an  adept  in  all  athletic  games.  It  was  a  dan- 
4 


74  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

gerous  intimacy,  and  her  heart  sank  as  she  found  that  the 
pleasures  to  which  he  had  been  introducing  Gilbert,  were 
not  merely  the  free  exercise,  the  rabbit-shooting  and  rat- 
hunting  of  the  farm,  nor  even  the  village  cricket-match, 
all  of  which,  in  other  company,  would  have  had  her  full 
sympathy.  But  there  had  been  such  low  and  cruel  sports 
that  she  turned  her  head  away  sickened  at  the  notion  of 
amr  one  dear  to  her  having  been  engaged  in  such  amuse- 
ments ;  and  when  Gilbert  in  excuse  said  that  every  one 
did  it,  she  answered  indignantly,  '  My  brothers  never  ! ' 

'  It  is  no  use  talking  about  what  swells  do  that  hunt 
and  shoot,  and  go  to  school,'  answered  Gilbert. 

'  Do  you  wish  you  went  to  school  ? '  asked  Albinia. 

'  I  wish  I  was  out  of  it  all ! ' 

He  was  in  a  very  different  frame.  He  owned  that  he 
knew  how  wrong  it  had  been  to  deceive,  but  he  seemed 
to  look  upon  it  as  a  sort  of  fate ;  he  wished  he  could  help 
it,  but  could  not ;  he  was  so  much  afraid  of  his  father  that 
he  did  not  know  what  he  said  ;  Archie  Tritton  said  no  one 
could  get  on  without. — There  was  an  utter  bewilderment 
in  his  notions,  here  and  there  showing  a  better  tone,  but 
obscured  by  the  fancies  imbibed  from  his  companion,  that 
the  knowledge  and  practice  of  evil  were  manly.  At  one 
moment  he  cried  bitterly,  and  declared  that  he  was 
wretched  ;  at  another  he  defended  each  particular  case 
with  all  his  might,  changing  and  slipping  away,  so  that 
she  did  not  know  where  to  take  him.  However,  the  con- 
clusion was  far  more  in  pity  than  anger,  and  after  receiv- 
ing many  promises  that  if  she  would  shield  him  from  his 
father,  and  bear  with  him,  he  would  abstain  from  all  she 
disapproved,  she  caressed  and  soothed  the  aching  head, 
and  returned  to  his  father  hopeful  and  encouraged,  certain 
that  the  evil  had  been  chiefly  caused  by  weakness  and 
neglect,  and  believing  that  here  was  a  beginning  of  re- 
pentance. Since  there  was  sorrow  and  confession,  there 
surely  must  be  reformation. 

For  a  week  Gilbert  went  on  steadily,  but  at  the  end 
of  that  time  his  arrivals  at  home  became  irregular,  and 
one  day  there  was  another  great  aberration.  On  a  doubt- 
ful day,  when  it  had  been  decided  that  he  might  go  safely 


THE    YOUNG   STEP-3IOTHEE.  75 

between  the  showers,  he  never  came  to  Tremblam  at  all, 
and  Mr.  Salsted  sent  a  note  to  Mr.  Kendal  to  let  him 
know  that  his  son  had  been  at  the  races — village  races, 
managed  by  the  sporting  farmers  of  the  neighbourhood. 
There  was  a  sense  of  despair,  and  again  a  talk,  bringing 
at  once  those  ever-ready  tears  and  protestations,  sorrow 
genuine,  but  fruitless.  '  It  was  all  Archie's  fault,  he  had 
overtaken  him,  persuaded  him  that  Mr.  Salsted  would 
not  expect  him,  promised  him  that  he  should  see  the  cel- 
ebrated ':  Blunderbuss,"  Sam  Shepherd's  horse,  that  won 
the  race  last  year.'  Gilbert  had  gone  '  because  he  could 
not  help  it.' 

'  Not  help  it ! '  cried  Albinia,  looking  at  him  with  her 
clear  indignant  eyes.  '  How  can  you  be  such  a  poor  crea- 
ture, Gilbert  1 ' 

1  It  is  very  hard  ! '  exclaimed  Gilbert ;  '  I  must  go 
past  Robbie's  Leigh  twice  every  day  of  my  life,  and 
Archie  will  come  out  and  be  at  me.' 

*  That  is  the  very  temptation  you  have  to  resist,'  said 
Albinia.  '  Fight  against  it,  pray  against  it,  resolve  against 
it ;  ride  fast,  and  don't  linger  and  look  after  him.' 

He  looked  desponding  and  miserable.  If  she  could 
only  have  put  a  spirit  into  him  ! 

'  Shall  I  walk  and  meet  you  sometimes  before  vou  get 
to  Robbie's  Leigh?' 

His  face  cleared  up,  but  the  cloud  returned  in  a  mo- 
ment. '  What  is  it  ? '  she  asked.  '  Only  tell  me.  You 
know  I  wish  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  help  you.' 

He  did  confess  that  there  was  nothing  he  should  like 
better,  if  Archie  would  not  be  all  the  worse  another  time, 
whenever  he  should  catch  him  alone. 

'  But  surely,  Gilbert,  he  is  not  always  lying  in  am- 
bush for  you,  like  a  cat  for  a  mouse.  You  can't  be  his 
sole  game.' 

1  No,  but  he  is  coming  or  going,  or  out  with  his  cun, 
and  he  will  often  come  part  of  the  way  with  me,  and  he 
is  such  a  droll  fellow  I ' 

Albinia  thought  that  there  was  but  one  cure.  To 
leave  Gilbert  daily  exposed  to  the  temptation  must  be 
wrong,  and  she  laid  the  case  before  Mr.  Kendal  with  so 


76  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

much  earnestness,  that  he  allowed  that  it  would  be  better 
to  send  the  boy  from  home ;  and  in  the  meantime,  Al- 
binia  obtained  that  Mr.  Kendal  should  ride  some  way  on 
the  Tremblam  road  with  his  son  in  the  morning,  so  as  to 
convoy  him  out  of  reach  of  the  tempter  ;  whilst  she  tried 
to  meet  him  in  the  afternoon,  and  managed  so  that  he 
should  be  seldom  without  the  hope  of  meeting  her. 

Albinia's  likings  had  taken  a  current  absolutely  con- 
trary to  all  her  preconceived  notions ;  Sophia,  with  her 
sullen  truth,  was  respected,  but  it  was  not  easy  to  like 
her  even  as  well  as  Lucy,  who,  though  pert  and  empty, 
had  much  good-nature  and  good  temper,  and  was  not 
indocile ;  while  Gilbert,  in  spite  of  a  weak,  shallow  char- 
acter, habits  of  deception,  and  low  ungentlemanly  tastes, 
had  won  her  affection,  and  occupied  the  chief  of  her  time 
and  thoughts ;  and  she  dreaded  the  moment  of  parting 
with  him,  as  removing  the  most  available  and  agreeable 
of  her  young  companions. 

That  moment  of  parting,  though  acknowledged  to  be 
expedient,  did  not  approach.  Gilbert  could  not  be  sent 
to  a  public  school  without  risk  and  anxiety  which  his 
father  did  not  like,  and  which  would  have  been  horror  to 
his  grandmother  ;  and  Albinia  herself  did  not  feel  certain 
that  he  was  fit  for  it,  nor  that  it  was  her  part  to  enforce 
it.  She  wrote  to  her  brother,  and  found  that  he  likewise 
thought  a  tutor  would  be  a  safer  alternative  ;  but  then  he 
must  be  a  perfect  man  in  a  perfect  climate,  and  Mr.  Ken- 
dal was  not  the  man  to  make  researches.  Mr.  Dusautoy 
mentioned  one  clergyman  who  took  pupils,  Maurice  Fer- 
rars  another,  but  there  was  something  against  each.  Mr. 
Kendal  wrote  four  letters,  and  was  undecided — a  third 
was  heard  of,  but  the  locality  was  doubtful,  and  the  plan 
Went  off,  because  Mr.  Kendal  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
to  go  thirty  miles  to  see  the  place,  and  talk  to  a  stranger. 

Albinia  found  that  her  power  did  not  extend  beyond 
driving  him  from  '  I'll  see  about  it,'  to  '  Yes,  by  all 
means.'  Action  was  a  length  to  which  he  could  not  be 
brought.  Mr.  Nugent  was  very  anxious  that  he  should 
qualify  as  a  magistrate,  since  a  sensible,  highly-principled 
man   was  much  wanted  to  counterbalance  Admiral  Os- 


THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  77 

bom's  misdirected,  restless  activity,  and  the  lower  parts 
of  the  town  were  in  a  dreadful  state.  Mrs.  Nugent  talked 
to  Albinia,  and  she  urged  it  in  vain.  To  come  out  of  his 
study,  examine  felons,  contend  with  the  Admiral,  and  to 
meet  all  the  world  at  the  quarter  sessions,  was  abhorrent 
to  him,  and  he  silenced  her  almost  with  sternness. 

She  was  really  hurt  and  vexed,  and  scarcely  less  so  by 
a  discovery  that  she  made  shortly  after.  The  hot  weather 
had  made  the  houses  beneath  the  hill  more  close  and  un- 
wholesome than  ever,  Simkins's  wife  had  fallen  into  a  lin- 
gering illness,  and  Albinia,  visiting  her  constantly,  was 
painfully  sensible  of  the  dreadful  atmosphere  in  which 
she  lived,  under  the  roof,  with  a  window  that  would  not 
open.  She  offered  to  have  the  house  improved  at  her 
own  expense,  but  was  told  that  Mr.  Pettilove  would  raise 
the  rent  if  anything  were  laid  out  on  it.  She  went  about 
talking  indignantly  of  Mr.  Pettilove's  cruelty  and  rapa- 
city, and  when  Mr.  Dusautoy  hinted  that  Pettilove  was 
only  an  agent,  she  exclaimed  that  the  owner  was  worse, 
since  ignorance  alone  could  be  excused.  Who  was  the 
wretch  ?  Some  one,  no  doubt,  who  never  came  near  the 
place,  and  only  thought  of  it  as  money. 

'  Fanny,'  said  Mr.  Dusautoy, '  I  really  think  we  ought 
to  tell  her.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy, 1 1  think  it  would  be  better. 
The  houses  belonged  to  old  Mr.  Meadows.' 

'  Oh,  if  they  are  Mrs.  Meadows's,  I  don't  Avonder  at 
anything.' 

1 1  believe  they  are  Gilbert  Kendal's.' 

They  were  very  kind ;  Mr.  Dusautoy  strode  out  at 
the  window,  and  his  wife  would  not  look  at  Albinia  dur- 
ing the  minute's  struggle  to  regain  her  composure,  under 
the  mortification  that  her  husband  should  have  let  her 
rave  so  much  and  so  long  about  what  must  be  in  his  own 
power.  Her  only  comfort  was  the  hope  that  he  had 
never  heard  what  she  said,  and  she  knew  that  he  so  ex- 
tremely disliked  a  conference  with  Pettilove,  that  he 
would  consent  to  anything  rather  than  have  a  discussion. 

She  was,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  out  of  spirits. 
Gilbert  was  always  upon  her  mind ;  and  the  daily  walk 


78  THE  YOUNG  STEP-MOTHER. 

to  meet  him  was  a  burthen,  consuming  a  great  deal  of 
time,  and  becoming  trying  on  hot  summer  afternoons, 
the  more  so  as  she  seldom  ventured  to  rest  after  it,  lest 
dulness  should  drive  Gilbert  into  mischief,  or,  if  nothing 
worse,  into  quarrelling  with  Sophia.  If  she  could  not 
send  him  safely  out  fishing,  she  must  be  at  hand  to  invent 
pleasures  and  occupations  for  him  ;  and  the  worst  of  it 
was  that  the  girls  grudged  her  attention  to  their  brother, 
and  were  becoming  jealous.  They  hated  the  walk  to 
Robbie's  Leigh,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  hard  on  them 
that  their  pleasure  should  be  sacrificed ;  but  it  was  all- 
important  to  preserve  him  from  evil.  She  had  wished  to 
keep  the  tutor-negotiations  a  secret,  but  they  had  oozed 
out,  and  she  found  that  Mrs.  and  Miss  Meadows  had  been 
declaring  that  they  had  known  how  it  would  be — what- 
ever people  said  beforehand,  it  always  came  to  the  same 
thing  in  the  end,  and  as  to  its  being  necessary,  poor  dear 
Gibbie  was  very  different  before  the  change  at  home. 

Albinia  could  not  help  shedding  a  few  bitter  tears. 
Why  was  she  to  be  always  misjudged,  even  when  she 
meant  the  best  1  And,  oh  !  how  hard,  well  nigh  impos- 
sible, to  forgive  and  candidly  to  believe  that,  in  the  old 
lady,  at  least,  it  was  partiality,  and  not  spite. 

In  September,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferrars  returned  from 
their  journey.  Albinia  was  anxious  to  see  them,  for  if 
there  was  a  sense  that  she  had  fallen  short  of  her  con- 
fident hopes  of  doing  prosperously,  there  was  also  a  great 
desire  for  their  sympathy  and  advice.  But  Maurice  had 
been  too  long  away  from  his  parish  to  be  able  to  spare 
another  day,  and  begged  that  the  Kendals  would  come  to 
Fairmead.  Seeing  that  Albinia's  heart  was  set  on  it,  Mr. 
Kendal  allowed  himself  to  be  stirred  up  to  appoint  a  time 
for  driving  her  over  to  spend  a  long  day  at  Fairmead. 

For  her  own  pleasure  and  ease  of  mind,  Albinia  made 
a  point  of  taking  Gilbert,  and  the  girls  were  to  spend  the 
day  with  their  grandmother. 

1  Pretty  old  Fairmead  ! '  she  cried,  as  the  beech  trees 
rose  before  her  ;  and  she  was  turning  round  every  minute 
to  point  out  to  Gilbert  some  of  the  spots  of  which  she 
had  told  him  ;  and  nodding  to  the  few  scattered  children 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  79 

who  were  not  at  school,  and  who  looked  up  with  mouths 
from  ear  to  ear,  and  flushed  cheeks,  as  they  curtsied  to 
1  Miss  Ferrars.'    The  '  Miss  Ferrers '  life  seemed  long  ago. 

They  came  to  the  little  green  gate  that  led  to  what 
had  been  '  home '  for  the  happiest  years  of  Albinia's  life, 
and  from  the  ivy  porch  there  was  a  rush  of  little  Willie 
and  Mary,  and  close  at  hand  their  mamma,  and  Maurice 
emerging  from  the  school.  It  was  very  joyous  and  nat- 
ural. But  there  were  two  more  figures,  not  youthful,  but 
of  decided  style  and  air,  and  quiet  but  fashionable  dress, 
and  Albinia  had  only  time  to  say  quickly  to  her  husband, 
*  my  aunts,'  before  she  was  fondly  embraced. 

It  was  not  at  all  what  she  had  intended.  Mrs.  Annes- 
ley  and  Miss  Ferrars  were  very  kind  aunts,  and  she  had 
much  affection  for  them  ;  but  there  was  an  end  of  the 
hope  of  the  unreserve  and  confidence  that  she  wanted. 
She  could  get  plenty  of  compassion  and  plenty  of  advice, 
but  her  whole  object  would  be  to  avoid  these ;  and,  be- 
sides, Mr.  Kendal  had  not  bargained  for  strangers. 
What  would  become  of  his  opportunity  of  getting  better 
acquainted  with  Maurice  and  Winifred,  and  of  all  the 
pleasures  that  she  had  promised  Gilbert  ? 

At  least,  however,  she  was  proud  that  her  aunts 
should  see  what  a  fine-looking  man  her  husband  was,  and 
they  were  evidently  struck  with  his  appearance  and  man- 
ner. Gilbert,  too,  was  in  very  good  looks,  and  was  alto- 
gether a  bright,  gentlemanly  boy,  well  made,  though 
with  the  air  of  growing  too  fast,  and  with  something  of 
uncertainty  about  his  expression. 

It  was  quickly  explained  that  the  aunts  had  only  de- 
cided, two  days  before,  on  coming  to  Fairmead  at  once, 
some  other  engagement  having  failed  them,  and  they  were 
delighted  to  find  that  they  should  meet  their  dear  Albinia, 
and  be  introduced  to  Mr.  Kendal.  Setting  off  before  the 
post  came  in,  Albinia  had  missed  Winifred's  note  to  tell 
her  of  their  arrival. 

1  And,'  said  Winifred,  as  she  took  Albinia  up-stairs, 
1  if  I  did  suspect  that  would  be  the  case,  I  won't  say  I  re- 
gretted it.  I  did  not  wish  to  afford  Mr.  Kendal  the  pleas- 
ures of  anticipation.' 


80  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

c  Perhaps  it  was  better,'  said  Albinia,  smiling  ;  '  espe- 
cially as  I  suppose  they  will  stay  for  the  next  six  weeks, 
so  that  the  days  will  be  short  before  you  will  be  free.' 

'  And  now  let  me  see  you,  my  pretty  one,'  said  Win- 
ifred, fondly.  '  Are  you  well,  are  you  strong  ?  No,  don't 
wriggle  your  head  away ;  I  shall  believe  nothing  but 
what  I  read  for  myself.' 

'  Don't  believe  anything  you  read  without  the  notes,' 
said  Albinia.  '  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you.  but  I 
don't  expect  much  opportunity  thereof.' 

Certainly  not,  for  Miss  Ferrars  was  knocking  at  the 
door.  She  had  never  been  able  to  suppose  that  the  sis- 
ters-in-law could  be  more  to  each  other  than  she  was  to 
her  own  niece. 

So  it  became  a  regular  specimen  of  a  '  long  day  '  spent 
together  by  relations,  who,  intending  to  be  very  happy, 
make  themselves  very  weary  of  each  other,  by  discarding 
ordinary  occupations,  and  reducing  themselves  to  needle- 
work and  small-talk.  Albinia  was  bent  on  liveliness,  and 
excelled  herself  in  her  droll  observations ;  but  to  Wini- 
fred, who  knew  her  so  well,  this  brilliancy  did  not  seem 
like  perfect  ease ;  it  was  more  like  effort  than  natural 
spirits.  This  was  no  wonder,  for  not  only  had  the  sight 
of  new  people  thrown  Mr.  Kendal  into  a  severe  access  of 
shyness  and  silence,  but  he  was  revolving  in  fear  and 
dread  the  expediency  of  asking  them  to  "Willow  Lawn, 
and  considering  whether  Albinia  and  propriety  could 
make  the  effort  bearable.  Silent  he  sat,  while  the  aunts 
talked  of  their  wishes  that  one  nephew  would  marry,  and 
that  the  other  would  not ;  and  no  one  presumed  to  ad- 
dress him,  except  little  Mary,  who  would  keep  trotting 
up  to  him,  to  make  him  drink  out  of  her  doll's  tea-cups. 

Mr.  Ferrars  took  pity  on  him,  and  took  him  and  Gil- 
bert out  to  call  upon  Colonel  Bury  ;  but  this  did  not  lessen 
his  wife's  difficulties,  for  there  was  a  general  expecta- 
tion that  she  would  proceed  to  confidences ;  whereas  she 
would  do  nothing  but  praise  the  Dusautoys,  ask  after  all 
the  parishioners  of  Fairmead  one  by  one,  and  consult 
about  French  reading-books  and  Italian  grammars.  Mrs. 
Annesley  began  a  gentle  warning  against  over-taxing  her 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  81- 

strength,  and  Miss  Ferrars  enforced  it  with  such  vehe- 
mence, that  Winifred,  who  had  been  rather  on  that  side, 
began  to  take  Albinia's  part,  but  perceived,  with  some 
anxiety,  that  her  sister's  attempts  to  laugh  off  the  admo- 
nition almost  amounted  to  an  admission  that  she  was 
working  very  hard.  As  to  the  step-daughters,  no  intelli- 
gence was  attainable,  except  that  Lucy  would  be  pleased 
with  a  new  crochet  pattern,  and  that  Sophy  was  like  her 
father,  but  not  so  handsome. 

The  next  division  of  time  passed  better.  Albinia 
walked  out  at  the  window  to  meet  the  gentlemen  when 
they  came  home,  and  materially  relieved  Mr.  Kendal's 
mind  by  saying  to  him,  '  The  aunts  are  settled  in  here 
till  they  go  to  Knutsford.  I  hope  you  don't  think — there 
is  not  the  least  occasion  for  asking  them  to  stay  with  us.' 

'  Are  you  sure  you  do  not  wish  it  % '  said  Mr.  Kendal, 
with  great  kindness,  but  an  evident  weight  removed. 

1  Most  certain ! '  she  exclaimed,  with  full  sincerity ; 
*  I  am  not  at  all  ready  for  them.  What  should  I  do  with 
them  to  entertain  1 ' 

'Very  well,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  '  you  must  be  the  judge. 
If  there  be  no  necessity,  I  shall  be  glad  to  avoid  unsettling 
our  habits,  and  probably  Bayford  would  hardly  afford 
much  enjoyment  to  your  aunts.' 

Albinia  glanced  in  his  face,  and  in  that  of  her  brother, 
with  her  own  arch  fun.  It  was  the  first  time  that  day 
that  Maurice  had  seen  that  peculiarly  merry  look,  and  he 
rejoiced,  but  he  was  not  without  fear  that  she  was  fostering 
Mr.  Kendal's  retiring  habits  more  than  was  good  for  him. 
But  it  was  not  only  on  his  account  that  she  avoided  the 
invitation ;  she  by  no  means  wished  to  show  Bayford  to 
her  fastidious  aunts,  and  felt  as  if  to  keep  them  satisfied 
and  comfortable  would  be  beyond  her  power. 

Set  free  from  this  dread,  and  his  familiarity  with  his 
brother-in-law  renewed,  Mr.  Kendal  came  out  to  great  ad- 
vantage at  the  early  dinner.  Miss  Ferrars  was  well  read 
and  used  to  literary  society,  and  she  started  subjects  on 
which  he  was  at  home,  and  they  discussed  new  books  and 
criticised  critics,  so  that  his  deep  reading  showed  itself, 
and  even  a  grave,  quiet  tone  of  satire,  such  as  was  seldom 
4* 


82  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

developed,  except  under  the  most  favourable  circumstances. 
He  and  Aunt  Gertrude  were  evidently  so  well  pleased  with 
each  other,  that  Albinia  almost  thought  she  had  been  pre- 
cipitate in  letting  him  off  the  visit. 

Gilbert  had,  fortunately,  a  turn  for  small  children,  and 
submitted  to  be  led  about  the  garden  by  little  Willie ;  and 
as  far  as  moderate  enjoyment  went,  the  visit  was  not  un- 
successful ;  but  as  for  what  Albinia  came  for,  it  was  unat- 
tainable, except  for  one  little  space  alone  with  her  brother. 

'  I  meant  to  have  asked  a  great  deal,'  she  said,  sighing. 

<  If  you  want  me,  I  would  contrive  to  ride  over,'  said 
Maurice. 

1  No,  it  is  not  worth  that.  But,  Maurice,  what  is  to 
be  done  when  one  sees  one's  duty,  and  yet  fails  for  ever 
for  want  of  tact  and  temper  1  Ah,  I  know  what  you  will 
say,  and  I  often  say  it  to  myself;  but  whatever  I  propose, 
I  always  do  either  the  wrong  thing,  or  in  the  wrong  way  ! ■ 

1  You  fall  a  hundred  times  a  day,  but  are  raised  up 
again,'  said  Maurice. 

4  Maurice,  tell  me  one  thing.  Is  it  wrong  to  do,  not 
the  best,  but  only  the  best  one  can  V 

'  It  is  the  wrong  common  to  us  all,'  said  Maurice. 

1  I  used  to  believe  in  "  whatever  is  worth  doing  at  all, 
is  worth  doing  well."  Now,  I  do  everything  ill,  rather 
than  do  nothing  at  all.' 

1  There  are  only  two  ways  of  avoiding  that.' 

'  And  they  are —  %  ' 

'  Either  doing  nothing,  or  admiring  all  your  own 
doings.' 

'  Which  do  you  recommend  ? '  said  Albinia,  smiling, 
but  not  far  from  tears. 

1  My  dear,'  said  Maurice,  '  ail  I  can  dare  to  recom- 
mend, is  patience  and  self-control.  Don't  fret  and  agitate 
yourself  about  what  you  can't  do,  but  do  your  best  to  do 
calmly  what  you  can.    It  will  be  made  up,  depend  upon  it.' 

There  was  no  time  for  more ;  but  the  sound  counsel, 
the  sympathy,  and  playfulness  had  done  Albinia  wonder- 
ful good,  and  she  was  almost  glad  there  had  been  no  more 
privacy,  or  her  friends  might  have  guessed  that  she  had 
not  quite  found  a  counsellor  at  home. 


THE   TOUXG   STEP-MOTHER.  83 


CHAPTER  VI. 


The  Christmas  holidays  did  indeed  put  an  end  to  the 
walks  to  meet  Gilbert,  but  only  so  as  to  make  Albinia  feel 
responsible  for  him  all  day  long,  and  uneasy  whenever  he 
was  not  accounted  for.  She  played  chess  with  him,  found 
books,  and  racked  her  brains  to  seek  amusements  for  him ; 
but  knowing  all  the  time  that  it  was  hopeless  to  expect  a 
boy  of  fourteen  to  be  satisfied  with  them.  One  or  two 
boys  of  his  age  had  come  home  for  the  holidays,  and  she 
tried  to  be  relieved  by  being  told  that  he  was  going  out 
with  Dick  Wolfe  or  Harry  Osborn  ;  but  it  was  not  quite 
satisfactory,  and  she  began  to  look  fagged  and  unwell,  and 
had  lost  so  much  of  her  playfulness,  that  even  Mr.  Kendal 
was  alarmed. 

Sophia's  birthday  fell  in  the  last  week  before  Christ- 
mas, and  it  had  always  been  the  family  custom  to  drink 
tea  with  Mrs.  Meadows.  Albinia  made  the  engagement 
with  a  sense  of  virtuous  resignation,  though  not  feeling 
well  enough  for  the  infliction,  but  Mr.  Kendal  put  a  stop 
to  all  notion  of  her  going. 

She  expected  to  enjoy  her  quiet  solitary  evening,  but 
the  result  was  beyond  her  hopes,  for  as  she  was  wishing 
Gilbert  good-bye,  she  heard  the  click  of  the  study  lock, 
and  in  came  Mr.  Kendal. 

'  I  thought  you  were  gone,'  she  said. 

1  No.  I  did  not  like  to  leave  you  alone  for  a  whole 
evening.* 

If  it  wrere  only  an  excuse  to  himself  for  avoiding  the 
Meadows'  party,  it  was  too  prettily  done  for  the  notion  to 
occur  to  his  wife,  and  never  had  she  spent  a  happier  even- 
ing. He  was  so  unusually  tender  and  unreserved,  so  de- 
sirous to  make  her  comfortable,  and,  what  was  far  more  to 
her,  growing  into  so  much  confidence,  that  it  was  even 
better  than  what  she  used  last  year  to  picture  to  herself  as 
her  future  life  with  him.  It  even  came  to  what  he  had 
probably  never  done  for  any  one.  She  spoke  of  a  beauti- 
ful old  Latin  hymn,  which  she  had  once  read  with  her 
brother,  and  had  never  soen  adequately  translated,  and  he 


84  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

fetched  a  manuscript  book,  where,  written  out  with  unri- 
valled neatness,  stood  a  translation  of  his  own,  made  many 
years  ago,  full  of  scholarly  polish.  She  ventured  to  ask 
leave  to  copy  it.  '  I  will  copy  it  for  you,'  he  said,  '  but  it 
must  be  for  yourself  alone.' 

She  was  grateful  for  the  concession,  and  happy  in  the 
promise.  She  begged  to  turn  the  page,  and  it  was  granted. 
There  were  other  translations,  chiefly  from  curious  orien- 
tal sources,  and  there  were  about  twenty  original  poems,, 
elaborated  in  the  same  exquisite  manner,  and  with  a  deep 
melancholy  strain  of  thought,  and  power  of  beautiful  de- 
scription, that  she  thought  finer  and  more  touching  than 
almost  anything  she  had  read. 

'  And  these  are  all  locked  up  for  ever.  No  one  has 
seen  them.' 

1  No.  When  I  was  a  young  lad,  my  poor  father  put 
some  lines  of  mine  into  a  newspaper.  That  sufficed  me,' 
and  he  shut  the  clasped  book  as  if  repenting  of  having 
revealed  the  contents. 

i  No  ;  I  was  not  thinking  of  anything  you  would  dis- 
like with  regard  to  those  verses.  I  don't  like  to  let  in 
the  world  on  things  precious,  but  (how  could  she  venture- 
so  far  ?)  I  was  thinking  how  many  powers  and  talents  are 
shut  up  in  that  study  I  and  whether  they  might  not  have 
been  meant  for  more.  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  ought  not 
to  say  so.' 

'The  time  is  past,'  he  replied,  without  displeasure; 
*  my  youth  is  gone,  and  with  it  the  enterprise  and  hope- 
fulness that  can  press  forward,  insensible  to  annoyance. 
You  should  have  married  a  man  with  freshness  and  en- 
ergy more  responsive  to  your  own.' 

'  Oh,  Edmund,  that  is  a  severe  reproach  for  my  im- 
pertinent speech.' 

'  You  must  not  expect  too  much  from  me,'  he  contin- 
ued. '  I  told  you  that  I  was  a  broken,  grief-stricken  man, 
and  you  were  content  to  be  my  comforter.' 

'  Would  that  I  could  be  so  ! '  exclaimed  Albinia, '  but 
to  try  faithfully,  I  must  say  what  is  on  my  mind.  Dear 
Edmund,  if  you  would  only  look  out  of  your  books,  and 
see  how  much  good  you  could  do,  here  in  your  own 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-ilOTHEK.  85 

sphere,  how  much  the  right  wants  strengthening,  how 
much  evil  cries  out  to  be  repressed,  how  sadly  your  own 
poor  suffer — oh  !  if  you  once  began,  you  would  be  so 
much  happier ! ' 

She  trembled  with  earnestness,  and  with  fear  of  her  own 
audacity,  but  a  resounding  knock  at  the  door  prevented 
her  from  even  discovering  whether  he  were  offended  He 
started  away  to  secure  his  book,  and  the  two  girls  came 
in.  Albinia  could  hardly  believe  it  late  enough  for  their 
return,  but  they  accounted  for  having  come  rather  earlier 
by  saying  that  Gilbert  had  been  making  himself  so  ridic- 
ulous when  he  had  come  at  last,  that  grandmamma  had 
sent  him  home. 

1  At  last ! '  said  Albinia.  '  He  set  off  only  ten  min- 
utes after  you,  as  soon  as  he  found  that  papa  was  not 
coming.' 

'  All  I  know,'  said  Lucy,  '  is,  that  he  did  not  come  till 
half-past  nine  ,  and  said  he  had  come  from  home.' 

'  And  where  can  he  be  now  ? ' 

'  Gone  to  bed,'  growled  Sophy. 

*  I  don't  know  what  he  has  been  doing,'  said  Lucy, 
who  since  the  suspicion  of  favouritism,  had  seemed  to  find 
especial  pleasure  in  bringing  forward  her  brother's  faults  ; 
*  but  he  came  in  laughing  like  a  plough-boy,  and  talking 
perfect  nonsense.  And  when  Aunt  Maria  spoke  to  him, 
he  answered  quite  rudely,  that  he  wasn't  going  to  be 
questioned,  and  called  to  order,  he  had  enough  of  petti- 
coat government  at  home.' 

'  No/  said  Sophia,  breaking  in  with  ungracious  reluc- 
tance, as  if  against  her  will  conveying  some  comfort  to 
her  step-mother  for  the  sake  of  truth,  '  what  he  said  was, 
that  if  he  bore  with  petticoat  government  at  home,  it  was 
because  Mrs.  Kendal  was  pretty  and  kind,  and  didn't  tor- 
ment him  out  of  his  life  for  nothing,  and  what  he  stood 
from  her,  he  would  not  stand  from  any  other  woman.' 

1  But,  Sophy,  I  am  sure  he  did  say  Mrs.  Kendal  knew 
what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  said  it,  and  it  was  worth 
hearing,  and  he  laughed  in  Aunt  Maria's  face,  and  told 
her  not  to  make  so  many  bites  at  a  cherry.' 

'  He  must  have  been  beside  himself'  said  Abinia  in  a 


86  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

bewilderment  of  consternation ;  but  Mr.  Kendal's  return 
put  a  stop  to  all,  for  the  sisters  never  told  tales  before 
him,  and  she  would  not  bring  the  subject  under  his  notice 
until  she  should  be  better  informed.  His  suffering  was 
too  great,  his  wrath  too  stern,  to  be  excited  without  se- 
rious cause ;  but  she  spent  a  wakeful,  anxious  night,  re- 
volving all  imaginable  evils  into  which  the  boy  could 
have  fallen,  and  perplexing  herself  what  measures  to  take, 
feeling  all  the  more  grieved  and  bound  to  him  by  the 
preference  that,  even  in  this  dreadful  mood,  he  had  ex- 
pressed for  her.  She  fell  into  a  restless  sleep  in  the 
morning,  from  which  she  wakened  so  late  as  to  have  no 
time  to  question  Gilbert  before  breakfast.  On  coming 
down,  she  found  that  he  had  not  made  his  appearance, 
and  had  sent  word  that  he  had  a  bad  headache,  and 
wanted  no  breakfast.  His  father,  who  had  made  a  visit 
of  inspection,  said  he  thought  it  was  passing  off,  smiling 
as  he  observed  upon  Mrs.  Meadows'  mince-pie  suppers 
and  home-made  wine. 

Lucy  said  nothing,  but  glanced  knowingly  at  her  sister 
and  at  Albinia,  from  neither  of  whom  did  she  get  any 
response. 

Albinia  did  not  dare  to  take  any  measures  till  Mr. 
Kendal  had  ridden  out,  and  then  she  went  up  and  knocked 
at  Gilbert's  door.  He  was  better,  he  said,  and  was  get- 
ting up,  he  would  be  down-stairs  presently.  She  watched 
for  him  as  he  came  down,  looking  still  very  pale  and  un- 
well. She  took  him  into  her  room,  made  him  sit  by  the 
fire,  and  get  a  little  life  and  warmth  into  his  chilled  hands 
before  she  spoke.  '  Yes,  Gilbert,  I  don't  wonder  you  can- 
not lift  up  your  head  while  so  much  is  on  your  mind.' 

Gilbert  started  and  hid  his  face. 

'  Did  you  think  I  did  not  know,  and  was  not  grieved? ' 

'  Well,'  he  cried,  peevishly,  '  I'm  sure  I  have  the  most 
ill-natured  pair  of  sisters  in  the  world.' 

'  Then  you  meant  to  deceive  us  again,  Gilbert.' 

He  had  relapsed  into  the  old  habit — as  usual,  a  burst 
of  tears  and  a  declaration  that  no  one  was  ever  so  badly 
off,  and  he  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

'  You  do  know  perfectly  well  what  to  do,  Gilbert. 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  87 

There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  tell  me  the  whole  meaning 
of  this  terrible  affair,  and  I  will  see  whether  I  can  help 
you.' 

It  was  always  the  same  round,  a  few  words  would 
always  bring  the  confession,  and  that  pitiful  kind  of  help- 
less repentance,  which  had  only  too  often  given  her  hope. 

Gilbert  assured  her  that  he  had  fully  purposed  fol- 
lowing his  sisters,  but  that  on  the  way  he  had  unluckily 
fallen  in  with  Archie  Tritton  and  a  friend,  who  had  driven 
in  to  hear  a  man  from  London  singing  comic  songs  at  the 
King's  Head,  and  they  had  persuaded  him  to  come  in. 
He  had  been  uneasy  and  tried  to  get  away,  but  the  dread 
of  being  laughed  at  about  his  grandmother's  tea  had  pre- 
vailed, and  he  had  been  supping  on  oysters  and  porter, 
and  trying  to  believe  himself  a  fast  man,  till  Archie,  who 
had  assured  him  that  he  was  himself  going  home  in  '  no 
time,'  had  found  it  expedient  to  set  off,  and  it  had  been 
agreed  that  he  should  put  a  bold  face  on  it,  and  profess 
that  he  had  never  intended  to  do  more  than  come  and 
fetch  his  sisters  home. 

That  the  porter  had  anything  to  do  with  his  extraor- 
dinary manner  to  his  grandmother  and  aunt,  was  so 
shocking  a  notion,  and  the  very  hint  made  him  cry  so 
bitterly,  and  protest  so  earnestly  that  he  'had  only  had 
one  pint,  which  he  did  not  like,  and  only  drank  because 
he  was  afraid  of  being  teased,  that  Albinia  was  ready  to 
believe  that  he  had  been  so  elevated  by  excitement  as  to 
forget  himself,  and  continue  the  style  of  the  company  he 
had  left.  It  was  bad  enough,  and  she  felt  almost  over- 
powered by  the  contemplation  of  the  lamentable  weak- 
ness of  the  poor  boy,  of  the  consequences,  and  of  what  was 
incumbent  on  her. 

She  leant  back  and  considered  a  little  while,  then 
sighed  heavily,  and  said,  '  Gilbert,  two  things  must  be 
done.  You  must  make  an  apology  to  your  grandmother 
and  aunt,  and  you  must  confess  the  whole  to  your  father.' 

He  gave  a  sort  of  howl,  as  if  she  were  misusing  his 
confidence. 

'  It  must  be,'  she  said.  *  If  you  are  really  sorry,  you 
will  not  shrink.' 


88  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

•  I  do  not  believe  that  it  could  fail  to  come  to  your 
father's  knowledge,  even  if  I  did  not  know  it  was  my  duty 
to  tell  him,  and  how  much  better  to  confess  it  your- 
self.' 

For  this,  however,  Gilbert  seemed  to  have  no  force ; 
he  cried  piteously,  bewailed  himself,  vowed  incoherently 
that  he  would  never  do  so  again ;  and  if  she  had  not  pitied 
him  so  much,  would  have  made  her  think  him  contemp- 
tible. 

She  was  inexorable  as  to  having  the  whole  told, 
though  dreading  the  confession  scarcely  less  than  he  did ; 
and  he  finally  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  promised 
to  tell,  if  only  she  would  not  desert  him,  declaring,  with 
a  fresh  flood  of  tears,  that  he  should  never  do  wrong  when 
she  was  by.  Then  came  the  apology.  It  was  most  neces- 
sary, and  he  owned  that  it  would  be  much  better  to  be 
able  to  tell  his  father  that  his  grandmother  had  forgiven 
him ;  but  he  really  had  not  nerve  to  set  out  alone,  and 
Albinia,  who  had  begun  to  dread  having  him  out  of  sight, 
consented  to  go  and  protect  him. 

He  shrank  behind  her,  and  she  had  to  bear  the  flood 
of  Maria's  surprises  and  regrets,  before  she  could  succeed 
in  saying  that  he  was  very  sorry  for  yesterday's  improper 
behaviour,  and  had  come  to  ask  pardon. 

Grandmamma  was  placable  ;  Gilbert's  white  face  and 
red  eyes  were  pleading  enough,  and  she  was  distressed  at 
Mrs.  Kendal  having  come  out,  looking  pale  and  tired.  If 
she  had  been  alone,  the  only  danger  would  have  been  that 
the  offence  would  be  lost  in  petting  ;  but  Maria  had  been 
personally  wounded,  and  the  jealousy  she  already  felt  of 
the  step-mother,  had  been  excited  to  the  utmost  by  Gil- 
bert's foolish  words.  She  was  excessively  grieved,  and  a 
great  deal  more  angry  with  Mrs.  Kendal  than  with  Gil- 
bert ;  and  the  want  of  justification  for  this  feeling,  to- 
gether with  her  great  excitement,  distress,  and  embar- 
rassment, made  her  attempts  to  be  dry  and  dignified 
ludicrously  abortive.  She  really  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
power  of  knowing  what  she  said.  She  was  glad  Mrs. 
Kendal  could  walk  up  this  morning,  since  she  could  not 
come  at  night. 


THE   TOUXG    STEP-MOTHER.  89 

'  It  w-as  not  my  fault,'  said  Albinia,  earnestly  ;  '  Mr. 
Kendal  forbade  me.     I  am  sure  I  wish  we  had  come.' 

The  old  lady  would  have  said  something  kind  about 
not  reproaching  herself,  but  Miss  Meadows  interposed 
with,  '  It  was  very  unlucky,  to  be  sure — Mr.  Kendal 
never  failed  them  before,  not  that  she  would  wish — but 
she  had  always  understood  that  to  let  young  people  run 
about  late  in  the  evening  by  themselves — not  that  she 
meant  anything,  but  it  was  very  unfortunate — if  she  had 
only,  been  aware — Betty  should  have  come  down  to  walk 
up  with  them.' 

Gilbert  could  not  forbear  an  ashamed  smile  of  intense 
affront  at  this  reproach  to  his  manliness. 

'  It  was  exceedingly  unfortunate,'  said  Albinia,  trying 
to  repress  her  vexation  ;  '  but  Gilbert  must  learn  to  have 
resolution  to  guard  himself.  And  now  that  he  is  come  to 
ask  your  forgiveness,  will  you  not  grant  it  to  him  1 ' 

'  Oh,  yes,  yes,  certainly,  I  forgive  him  from  my  heart. 
Yes,  Gilbert,  I  do,  only  you  must  mind  and  beware — 
it  is  a  very  shocking  thing — low  company  and  all  that — 
you've  made  yourself  look  as  ill — and  if  you  knew  what 
a  cake  Betty  had  made — almond  and  citron  both, — "  but 
it's  for  Master  Gilbert,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  grudge  " 
— and  then  to  think — oh,  dear  ! ' 

Albinia  tried  to  express  for  him  some  becoming  sor- 
row at  having  disappointed  so  much  kindness,  but  she 
brought  Miss  Meadows  down  on  her  again. 

'  Oh,  yes — she  grudged  nothing — but  she  never  ex- 
pected to  meet  with  gratitude — she  was  quite  prepared 
— '  and  she  swallowed  and  almost  sobbed, '  there  had  been 
changes.  She  was  ready  to  make  every  excuse — she  was 
sure  she  had  done  her  best — but  she  understood — she 
didn't  want  to  be  assured.  It  always  happened  so — she 
knew  her  homely  ways  were  not  what  Mrs.  Kendal  had 
been  used  to — and  she  didn't  wronder — she  only  hoped 
the  clear  children — '  and  she  was  absolutely  crying. 

'  My  dear  Maria,'  said  her  mother,  soothingly,  '  you 
have  worked  yourself  into  such  a  state,  that  you  don't 
know  what  you  are  saying.     You  must  not  let  Mrs.  Ken- 


90  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

dal  think  that  we  don't  know  that  she  is  leading  ^he  dear 
children  to  all  that  is  right  and  kind  towards  us.' 

I  Oh.  no,  I  don't  accuse  any  one.  Only  if  they  like  to 
put  me  down  under  their  feet  and  trample  on  me,  they 
are  welcome.     That's  all  I  have  to  say.' 

Alblnia  was  too  much  annoyed  to  be  amused,  and 
said,  as  she  rose  to  take  leave, '  I  think  it  would  be  better 
for  Gilbert,  as  well  as  for  ourselves  if  we  were  to  say  no 
more  till  some  more  cool  and  reasonable  moment.' 

I I  am  as  cool  as  possible,'  said  Miss  Meadows,  con- 
vulsively clutching  her  hand ;  '  I'm  not  excited.  Don't 
excite  yourself,  Mrs.  Kendal — it  is  very  bad  for  you.  Tell 
her  not,  Mamma — oh !  no,  don't  be  excited— I  mean 
nothing — I  forgive  poor  dear  Gibbie  whatever  little  mat- 
ters— I  know  there  was  excuse — boys  with  unsettled 
homes — but  pray  don't  go  and  excite  yourself — you  see 
how  cool  I  am — ' 

And  she  pursued  Albinia  to  the  garden-gate,  recom- 
mending her  at  every  step  not  to  be  excited,  for  she  was 
as  cool  as  possible,  trembling  and  stammering  all  the  time, 
with  flushed  cheeks,  and  tears  in  her  eyes. 

'  I  wonder  who  she  thinks  is  excited  ? '  exclaimed  Al- 
binia, as  they  finally  turned  their  backs  on  her. 

It  was  hardly  in  human  nature  to  help  making  the 
observation,  but  it  was  not  prudent.  Gilbert  took  licence 
to  laugh,  and  say, '  Aunt  Maria  is  beside  herself.' 

1 1  never  heard  anything  so  absurd  or  unjust ! '  cried 
Albinia,  too  much  irritated  to  remember  anything  but 
the  sympathy  of  her  auditor.  '  If  I  am  to  be  treated  in 
this  manner,  I  have  done  striving  to  please  them.  Due 
respect  shall  be  shown,  but  as  to  intimacy  and  confi- 
dence— ' 

'  I'm  glad  you  see  it  so  at  last ! '  cried  Gilbert. 
'  Aunt  Maria  has  been  the  plague  of  my  life,  and  I'm 
glad  I  told  her  a  bit  of  my  mind  ! ' 

What  was  Albinia's  consternation !  Her  moment's 
petulance  had  undone  her  morning's  w'ork. 

'  Gilbert,'  she  said,  '  we  are  both  speaking  very 
wrongly.     I  especially,  who  ought  to  have  helped  you.' 

Spite  of  all  succeeding  humility,  the  outburst  had 


THE   YOTJN'G   STEP-MOTHER.  91 

been  fatal,  and  argue  and  plead  as  she  might,  she  could 
not  restore  the  boy  to  anything  like  the  half  satisfactory 
state  of  penitence  in  which  she  had  led  him  from  home. 
The  giving  way  to  her  worse  nature  had  awakened  his, 
and  though  he  still  allowed  that  she  should  prepare  the 
way  for  his  confession  to  his  father,  all  real  sense  of  his 
outrageous  conduct  towards  his  aunt  wras  gone. 

Disheartened  and  worn  out,  Albinia  did  not  feel  equal 
even  to  going  to  take  off  her  walking  things,  but  sat  down 
in  the  drawing-room  on  the  sofa,  and  tried  to  silence  the 
girls'  questions  and  chatter,  by  desiring  Lucy  to  read 
aloud. 

By-and-by  Mr.  Kendal  was  heard  returning,  and  she 
rose  to  arrest  him  in  the  hall.  Her  looks  began  the  story, 
for  he  exclaimed,  '  My  dear  Albinia,  what  is  the  matter  % ' 

1  Oh,  Edmund,  I  have  such  things  to  tell  you !  I  have 
been  doing  so  wrong.' 

She  was  almost  sobbing,  and  he  spoke  fondly.  '  No, 
Albinia,  I  can  hardly  believe  that.  Something  has  vexed 
you,  and  you  must  take  time  to  compose  yourself.' 

He  led  her  up  to  her  own  room,  tried  to  soothe  her, 
and  would  not  listen  to  a  word  till  she  should  be  calm. 
After  lying  still  for  a  little  while,  she  thought  she  had  re- 
covered, but  the  very  word  '  Gilbert '  brought  such  an  ex- 
pression of  anxiety  and  sternness  over  his  brow  as  over- 
came her  again,  and  she  could  not  speak  without  so  much 
emotion  that  he  silenced  her ;  and  finding  that  she  could 
neither  leave  the  subject,  nor  mention  it  without  violent 
agitation,  he  said  he  would  leave  her  for  a  little  while,  and 
perhaps  she  might  sleep,  and  then  be  better  able  to  speak 
to  him.  Still  she  held  him,  and  begged  that  he  would  say 
nothing  to  Gilbert  till  he  had  heard  her,  and  to  pacify  her 
he  yielded,  passed  his  promise,  and  quitted  her  with  a  kiss. 


92  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

There  was  a  messenger  at  Fairmead  parsonage  by 
sunrise  the  next  morning,  and  by  twelve  o'clock  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ferrars  were  at  Willow  Lawn. 

Mr.  Kendal's  grave  brow  and  depressed  manner  did 
not  reassure  Winifred  as  be  met  ber  in  tbe  ball,  altbougb 
bis  words  were,  '  I  bope  sbe  is  doing  well.' 

He  said  no  more,  for  tbe  drawing-room  door  was 
moving  to  and  fro,  as  if  uneasy  on  tbe  binges,  and  as  be 
made  a  step  towards  it,  it  disclosed  a  lady  witb  black  eyes 
and  pincbed  features,  wbom  be  presented  as  'Miss 
Meadows.' 

'Well,  now — I  tbink — since  more  efficient — since  I 
leave  Mrs.  Kendal  to  better — only  pray  tell  ber — my  love 
and  my  motber's — if  I  could  bave  been  of  any  use — or 
sball  I  remain  1 — could  I  be  of  any  service,  Edmund  f — 
I  would  not  intrude  wben — but  in  tbe  bouse — if  I  could 
be  of  any  furtber  use.' 

1  Of  none,  tbank  you,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  '  unless  you 
would  be  kind  enougb  to  take  borne  tbe  girls.' 

'  Ob,  papa ! '  cried  Lucy,  '  I've  got  tbe  keys.  You 
won't  be  able  to  get  on  at  all  witbout  me.  Sopby  may  go, 
but  I  could  not  be  spared.' 

'  Let  it  be  as  you  will,'  said  Mr.  Kendal ;  '  I  only  de- 
sire quiet,  and  tbat  you  sbould  not  inconvenience  Mrs. 
Ferrars.' 

'You  will  belp  me,  will  you  not?'  said  Winifred, 
smiling,  tbougb  sbe  did  not  augur  well  from  tbis  opening 
scene.     '  May  I  go  soon  to  Albinia  1 ' 

'  Presently,  I  bope,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  witb  an  uneasy 
glance  towards  Miss  Meadows  ;  '  sbe  bas  seen  no  one  as 
yet,  and  sbe  is  so  determined  tbat  you  cannot  come  till 
after  Cbristmas,  tbat  sbe  does  not  expect  you.' 

Miss  Meadows  began  one  of  ber  tangled  skeins  of 
words,  tbe  most  tangible  of  wbicb  was  excitement ;  and 
Mr.  Kendal,  knowing  by  long  experience  tbat  tbe  only 
cbance  of  a  conclusion  was  to  let  ber  run  berself  down, 
beld  bis  tongue,  and  sbe  finally  departed. 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  93 

Then  he  breathed  more  freely,  and  said  he  would  go 
and  prepare  Albinia  to  see  her  sister,  desiring  Lucy  to 
show  Mrs.  Ferrars  to  her  room,  and  to  take  care  not  to 
talk  upon  the  stairs. 

This,  Lucy,  who  was  in  high  glory,  obeyed  by  walking 
upon  creaking  tip-toe,  apparently  borrowed  from  her  aunt, 
and  whispering  at  a  wonderful  rate  about  her  eagerness  to 
see  clear,  dear  mamma,  and  the  darling  little  brother. 

The  spare  room  did  not  look  expectant  of  guests,  and 
felt  still  less  so.  It  struck  Winifred  as  very  like  the  mouth 
of  a  well,  and  the  paper  showed  patches  of  ancient  damp. 
One  maid  was  hastily  laying  the  fire,  the  other  shaking 
out  the  curtains,  in  the  endeavour  to  render  it  habitable, 
and  Lucy  began  saying,  '  I  must  apologize.  If  papa  had 
only  given  us  notice  that  we  were  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you,'  and  then  she  dashed  at  the  maid  in  all  the 
pleasure  of  authority.  '  Eweretta,  go  and  bring  up  Mrs. 
Ferrari's  trunks  directly,  and  some  water,  and  some 
towels.' 

Winifred  thought  the  greatest  mercy  to  the  hunted 
maid  would  be  to  withdraw  as  soon  as  she  had  hastily 
thrown  off  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  Lucy  followed  her  into 
the  passage,  repeating  that  papa  was  so  absent  and  for- 
getful, that  it  was  very  inconvenient  in  making  arrange- 
ments. Whatever  was  ordinarily  repressed  in  her,  was 
repaying  itself  with  interest  in  the  pleasure  of  acting  as 
mistress  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Ferrars  beheld  Gilbert  sitting  listlessly  on  the 
deep  window-seat  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  resting  his 
head  on  his  hand. 

'  Well ! '  exclaimed  Lucy,  '  if  he  is  not  there  still ! 
lie  has  hardly  stirred  since  breakfast !  Come  and  speak 
to  Mrs.  Ferrars,  Gilbert.  Or,'  and  she  simpered,  '  shall 
it  be  Aunt  Winifred?' 

'  As  you  please,'  said  Mrs.  Ferrars,  advancing  towards 
her  old  acquaintance,  whom  she  would  hardly  have  recog- 
nised, so  different  was  the  pale,  downcast,  slouching  figure, 
from  the  bright,  handsome  lad  she  remembered. 

'  How  cold  your  hand  is  ! '  she  exclaimed ;  '  you 
should  not  sit  in  this  cold  passage.' 


94  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

1  As  I  have  been  telling  him  all  this  morning/  said 
Lucy. 

'  How  is  she  ?  '  whispered  the  boy,  rousing  himself  to 
look  imploringly  in  Winifred's  face. 

1  Your  father  seems  satisfied  about  her.' 

At  that  moment  a  door  at  some  distance  was  opened, 
and  Gilbert  seemed  to  thrill  all  over  as  for  the  moment 
ere  it  closed  a  baby's  cry  was  heard.  •  He  turned  his  face 
away,  and  rested  it  on  the  window.  '  My  brother  !  my 
brother ! '  he  murmured,  but  at  that  moment  his  father 
turned  the  corner  of  the  passage,  saying  that  Albinia  had 
heard  their  arrival,  and  was  very  eager  to  see  her  sister. 

Still  Winifred  could  not  leave  the  boy  without  saying, 
1  You  can  make  Gilbert  happy  about  her,  can  you  not  1 
He  is  waiting  here,  watching  anxiously  for  news  of  her.' 

'  Gilbert  himself  best  knows  whether  he  has  a  right  to 
be  made  happy,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  gravely.  '  I  promised 
to  ask  no  questions  till  she  is  able  to  explain,  but  I  much 
fear  that  he  has  been  causing  her  great  grief  and  distress.' 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  son,  and  Winifred,  in  the  belief 
that  she  was  better  out  of  their  way,  hurried  to  Albinia's 
room,  and  was  seen  very  little  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

She  was  spared,  however,  to  walk  to  church  the  next 
morning  with  her  husband,  Lucy  showing  them  the  way, 
and  being  quiet  and  agreeable  when  repressed  by  Mr. 
Ferrars's  presence.  After  church,  Mr.  Dusautoy  over- 
took them  to  inquire  after  Mrs.  Kendal,  and  to  make  a 
kind  proposal  of  exchanging  Sunday  duty.  He  undertook 
to  drive  the  ponies  home  on  the  morrow,  begged  for  cre- 
dentials for  the  clerk,  and  messages  for  Willie  and  Mary, 
and  seemed  highly  pleased  with  the  prospectj.of  the  holi- 
day as  he  called  it,  only  entreating  that  Mrs.  Ferrars 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  look  in  on  '  Fanny,'  if  Mrs.  Ken- 
dal could  spare  her. 

' 1  thought,'  said  Winifred  to  her  husband,  '  that  you 
would  rather  have  exchanged  a  Sunday  when  Albinia  is 
better  able  to  enjoy  you  1 ' 

1  That  may  yet  be,  but  poor  Kendal  is  so  much  de- 
pressed, that  I  do  not  like  to  leave  him.' 

'  I  have  no  patience  with  him  ! '  cried  Winifred  ;  '  he 


THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTKEIi.  95 

does  not  seem  to  take  the  slightest  pleasure  in  his  baby, 
and  he  will  hardly  let  poor  Albinia  do  so  either  !  Do 
you  know,  Maurice,  it  is  as  bad  as  I  ever  feared  it  would 
be.  No,  don't  stop  me,  I  must  have  it  out.  I  always 
said  he  had  no  business  to  victimize  her,  and  I  am  sure 
of  it  now  !  I  believe  this  gloom  of  his  has  broken  down 
her  own  dear  sunny  spirits  ?  There  she  is — so  unlike 
herself — so  anxious  and  fidgety  about  her  baby — will 
hardly  take  any  one's  word  for  his  being  as  healthy  and 
stout  a  child  as  I  ever  saw  !  And  then,  every  other  mo- 
ment, she  is  restless  about  that  boy — always  asking  where 
he  is,  or  what  he  is  doing.  I  don't  see  how  she  is  ever  to 
get  well,  while  it  goes  on  in  this  way  !  Mr.  Kendal  told 
me  that  Gilbert  had  been  worrying  and  distressing  her ; 
and  as  to  those  girls,  the  eldest  of  them  is  intolerable 
with  her  airs,  and  the  youngest — I  asked  her  if  she  liked 
babies,  and  she  growled,  "  No."  Lucy  said  Gilbert  was 
waiting  in  the  passage  for  news  of  mamma,  and  she 
grunted,  "  All  sham  !  "  and  that's  the  whole  I  have  heard 
of  her  !  He  is  bad  enough  in  himself,  but  with  such  a 
train  !  My  poor  Albinia  !  If  they  are  not  the  death  of 
her,  it  will  be  lucky  ! ' 

•  Well  done,  Winifred  ! ' 

I  But,  Maurice,'  said  his  impetuous  wife,  in  a  curiously 
altered  tone,  '  are  not  you  very  unhappy  about  Albinia  ? ' 

I I  shall  leave  you  to  find  that  out  for  me.' 

I  Then  you  are  not  ? ' 

I I  think  Kendal  thoroughly  values  and  appreciates 
her,  and  is  very  uncomfortable  without  her.' 

'  I  suppose  so.  People  do  miss  a  maid-of-all-work.  \ 
should  not  so  much  mind  it,  if  she  had  been  only  his 
slave,  but  to  be  so  to  all  those  disagreeable  children  of 
his  too  !  And  with  so  little  effect.  Why  can't  he  send 
them  all  to  school  ? ' 

1  Propose  that  to  Albinia.' 

1  She  did  want  the  boy  to  go  somewhere.  I  should 
not  care  where,  so  it  were  out  of  her  way.  What  crea- 
tures they  must  be  for  her  to  have  produced  no  more 
effect  on  them  ! ' 

'  Poor  Albinia  !  I  am  afraid  it  is  a  hard  task  ;  but  these 


96  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

are  still  early  days,  and  we  see  things  at  a  disadvantage. 
We  shall  be  able  to  judge  whether  there  be  really  too 
great  a  strain  on  her  spirits,  and  if  so,  I  would  talk  to 
Kendal.' 

'  And  I  wonder  what  is  to  come  of  that.  It  seems  to 
me  like  what  John  Smith  calls  singing  psalms  to  a  dead 
horse.' 

'  John  Smith !  I  am  glad  you  mentioned  him ;  I 
shall  desire  Dusautoy  to  bring  him  here  on  Monday.' 

'  What !  as  poor  Albinia  would  say,  you  can't  exist  a 
week  without  John  Smith.' 

I  Even  so.  I  want  him  to  lay  out  a  plan  for  draining 
the  garden.  That  pond  is  intolerable.  I  suspect  that  all, 
yourself  included,  will  become  far  more  good-tempered  in 
consequence.' 

e  A  capital  measure ;  but  do  you  mean  that  Edmund 
Kendal  is  going  to  let  you  and  John  Smith  drain  his  pond 
under  his  very  nose,  and  never  find  it  out  ?  I  did  not 
imagine  him  quite  come  to  that.' 

*  Not  quite]  said  Maurice ;  '  it  is  with  his  free  con- 
sent, and  1  believe  he  will  be  very  glad  to  have  it  done 
without  any  trouble  to  himself.  He  said  that  "  Abinia 
thought  it  damj)"  and  when  I  put  a  few  sanatory  facts  be- 
fore him,  thanked  me  heartily,  and  seemed  quite  relieved. 
If  they  had  only  been  in  Sanscrit,  they  would  have  made 
the  greater  impression.' 

'  One  comfort  is,  Maurice,  that  however  provoking 
you  are  at  first,  you  generally  prove  yourself  reasonable 
at  last.     I  am  glad  you  are  not  Mr.  Kendal.' 

'  Ah  !  it  will  have  a  fine  effect  on  you  to  spend  your 
Christmas-day  tete-a-tete  with  him.' 

Mrs.  Ferrars's  views  underwent  various  modifica- 
tions, like  all  hasty  yet  candid  judgments.  She  took  Mr. 
Kendal  into  favour  when  she  found  him  placidly  submit- 
ting to  Miss  Meadows's  showers  of  words,  in  order  to 
prevent  her  gaining  access  to  his  wife. 

'  Maria  Meadows  is  a  very  well-meaning  person,'  he 
said  afterwards  ;  '  but  I  know  of  no  worse  infliction  in  a 
sick  room.' 

I I  wonder,'  thought  Winifred,  '  whether  he  married 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  97 

to  get  rid  of  her.  I  should  have  thought  it  justifiable  had 
it  been  any  one  but  Albinia  ! ' 

The  call  on  Mrs.  Dusautoy  was  consoling.  It  was 
delightful  to  find  how  Albinia  was  loved  and  valued  at 
the  vicarage.  Mrs.  Dusautoy  began  by  sending  her  as 
a  message,  John's  first  exclamation  on  hearing  of  the 
event.  '  Then  she  will  never  be  of  any  more  use.'  In 
fact,  she  said,  it  was  much  to  him  like  having  a  curate 
disabled ;  and  she  believed  he  could  only  be  consoled  by 
the  hopes  of  a  pattern  christening,  and  of  a  nursery  for 
his  school-girls ;  but  there  Winifred  shook  her  head, 
Fairmead  had  a  prior  claim,  and  Albinia  had  long  had 
her  eye  upon  a  scholar  of  her  own. 

*  I  told  John  that  she  would  !  and  he  must  bear  it  as 
he  can,'  laughed  Mrs.  Dusautoy  ;  and  she  went  on  more 
seriously  to  say  that  her  gratitude  was  beyond  expres- 
sion, not  merely  for  the  actual  help,  though  that  was 
much,  but  for  the  sympathy,  the  first  encouragement 
they  had  met  among  their  richer  parishioners ;  and  she 
spoke  of  the  refreshment  of  the  mirthfulness  and  playful 
manner,  so  as  to  convince  Winifred  that  they  had  neither 
died  away  nor  been  everywhere  wasted. 

Winifred  had  no  amenable  patient.  Weak  and  de- 
pressed as  Albinia  was,  her  restlessness  and  air  of  anxiety 
could  not  be  appeased.  There  was  a  look  of  being  con- 
stantly on  the  watch,  and  once,  when  her  door  was  ajar, 
before  Winifred  was  aware,  she  exerted  her  voice  to  call 
■Gilbert ! 

Pushing  the  door  just  wide  enough  to  enter,  and 
treading  almost  noiselessly,  he  came  forward,  looking 
from  side  to  side  as  with  a  sense  of  guilt.  She  stretched 
out  her  hand  and  smiled,  and  he  obeyed  the  movement 
that  asked  him  to  bend  and  kiss  her,  but  still  durst  not 
speak. 

1  Let  me  have  the  baby,'  she  said. 

Mrs.  Ferrars  laid  it  beside  her,  and  held  aloof.  Gil- 
bert's eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  it. 

'  Yes,  Gilbert,'  Albinia  said,  '  I  know  what  you  will 
feel  for  him.     He  can't  be  what  you  once  had — but  oh, 


98  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

Gilbert,  you  will  do  all  that  an  elder  brother  can  to  make 
him  like  Edmund  1 ' 

Gilbert  wrung  her  fingers,  and  ventured  to  stoop 
down  to  kiss  the  little  red  forehead.  The  tears  were 
running  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  could  not  speak. 

1  If  your  father  might  only  say  the  same  of  him  !  that 
he  never  grieved  him  ! '  said  Albinia  ;  '  but  oh,  Gilbert — 
example  ; '  and  then,  pausing  and  gazing  searchingly  in  his 
face,  '  Ycu  have  not  told  papa.' 

*  No,'  whispered  Gilbert. 

*  Winifred,'  said  Albinia,  l  would  you  be  so  kind  as 
to  ask  papa  to  come  1 ' 

Winifred  was  forced  to  obey,  though  feeling  much  to 
blame  as  Mr.  Kendal  rose  with  a  sigh  of  uneasiness. 
Gilbert  still  stood  with  his  hand  clasped  in  Albinia's,  and 
she  held  it  while  her  weak  voice  made  the  full  confession 
for  him,  and  assured  his  father  of  his  shame  and  sorrow. 
There  needed  no  such  assurance,  his  whole  demeanour 
had  been  sorrow  all  these  dreary  days,  and  Mr.  Kendal 
could  not  but  forgive,  though  his  eye  spoke  deep  grief. 

*  I  could  not  refuse  pardon  thus  asked,'  he  said.  '  Oh, 
Gilbert,  that  I  could  hope  this  were  the  beginning  of  a 
new  course ! ' 

Albinia  looked  from  Gilbert  to  his  little  brother,  and 
back  again  to  Gilbert. 

'  It  shall  be,'  she  said,  and  Gilbert's  resolution  was 
parhaps  the  more  sincere  that  he  spoke  no  word. 

'  Poor  boy,'  said  Albinia,  half  to  herself  and  half 
aloud, '  I  think  I  feel  more  strong  to  love  and  help  to  him  ! ' 

That  interview  was  a  dangerous  experiment,  and  she 
suffered  for  it.  As  her  brother  said,  instead  of  having 
too  little  life,  she  had  too  much,  and  could  not  let  herself 
rest ;  she  had  never  cultivated  the  art  of  being  still,  and 
when  she  was  weak,  she  could  not  be  calm. 

Still  the  strength  of  her  constitution  staved  off  the 
nervous  fever  of  her  spirits,  and  though  she  was  not  at  all 
a  comfortable  patient,  she  made  a  certain  degree  of  prog- 
ress ;  so  that  though  it  was  not  easy  to  call  her  better, 
she  was  not  quite  so  ill,  and  grew  less  irrational  in  her 
solicitude,   and   more   open   to   other   ideas.     *  Do   you 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  99 

know,  Winifred,'  she  said,  one  day,  '  I  have  been  thinking 
myself  at  Fairmead  till  I  almost  believed  I  heard  John 
Smith's  voice  under  the  window.' 

Winifred  was  obliged  to  look  out  at  the  window  to 
hide  her  smile.  Maurice,  who  was  standing  on  the  lawn 
with  the  very  John  Smith,  beckoned  to  her,  and  she  went 
down  to  hear  his  plans.  He  was  wanted  at  home  the 
next  day,  and  asked  whether  she  thought  he  had  bet- 
ter take  Gilbert  with  him.  '  It  is  the  wisest  thing  that 
has  been  said  yet ! '  exclaimed  she.  '  Now  I  shall  have  a 
chance  for  Albinia  ! '  and  accordingly,  Mr.  Kendal  having 
given  a  gracious  and  grateful  consent,  Albinia  was  in- 
formed ;  but  Winifred  thought  her  almost  perverse  when 
a  perturbed  look  came  over  her,  and  she  said,  '  It  is  very 
kind  in  Maurice,  but  I  must  speak  to  him.' 

He  was  struck  by  the  worn,  restless  expression  of  her 
features,  so  unlike  the  calm  contented  repose  of  a  young 
mother ;  and  when  she  spoke  to  him,  her  first  word  was 
of  Gilbert.  '  Maurice,  it  is  so  kind,  I  know  you  will 
make  him  happy — but  oh  !  take  care — he  is  so  delicate — 
indeed,  he  is — don't  let  him  get  wet  through.' 

Maurice  promised,  but  Albinia  resumed  with  minutiae 
of  directions,  ending  with,  *  Oh  !  if  he  should  get  hurt  or 
into  any  mischief,  what  should  we  do  ?  Pray,  take  care, 
Maurice,  you  are  not  used  to  such  delicate  boys.' 

'  My  dear,  I  think  you  may  rely  on  me.' 

'  Yes,  but  you  will  not  be  too  strict  with  him — '  and 
more  was  following,  when  her  brother  said,  '  I  promise 
you  to  make  him  my  special  charge.  I  like  the  boy  very 
much.  I  think  you  may  be  reasonable,  and  trust  him 
with  me,  without  so  much  agitation.  You  have  not  let 
me  see  my  own  nephew  yet.' 

Albinia  looked  with  her  wistful  piteous  face  at  her 
brother  as  he  took  in  his  arms  her  noble-looking  fair 
infant. 

I  You  are  a  great  fellow,  indeed,  sir,'  said  his  uncle. 
'  Now  if  I  were  your  mamma,  1  would  be  proud  of  you, 
rather  than — ' 

I I  am  afraid ! '  said  Albinia,  in  a  sudden  low  whisper. 
He  looked  at  her  anxiously. 


100  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

'  Let  me  have  him,'  she  said ;  then  as  Maurice  bent 
over  her,  and  she  hastily  gathered  the  babe  into  her  arms, 
she  whispered  in  quick,  low,  faint  accents,  '  Do  you  know 
how  many  children  have  been  born  in  this  house  ?  ' 

Mr.  Ferrars  understood  her ;  he  too  had  seen  the 
catalogue  in.  the  church,  and  guessed  that  the  phantoms 
of  her  boy's  dead  brethren  dwelt  on  her  imagination,  for- 
bidding her  to  rejoice  in  him  hopefully.  He  tried  to  say 
something  encouraging  of  the  child's  appearance,  but  she 
would  not  let  him  go  on.  'I  know,'  she  said,  ' he  is  so 
now — but — '  then  catching  her  breath  again  and  speaking 
very  low,  *  his  father  does  not  dare  look  at  him — I  see 
that  he  is  sorry  for  me — Oh,  Maurice,  it  will  come,  and  I 
shall  be  able  to  do  nothing  ! ' 

Maurice  felt  his  lip  quivering  as  his  sister's  voice  be- 
came choked — the  sister  to  whom  he  had  once  been  the 
whole  world,  and  who  still  could  pour  out  her  inmost 
heart  more  freely  to  him  than  to  any  other.  But  it  was 
a  time  for  grave  authority,  and  though  he  spoke  gently, 
it  was  almost  sternly. 

'  Albinia,  this  is  not  right.  It  is  not  thankful  or  trust- 
ful. No,  do  not  cry,  but  listen  to  me.  Your  child  is  as 
likely  to  do  well  as  any  child  in  the  world,  but  nothing 
is  so  likely  to  do  him  harm  as  your  want  of  composure.' 

1 1  tell  myself  so,'  said  Albinia,  '  but  there  is  no  help- 
ing it.' 

'  Yes,  there  is.  Make  it  your  duty  to  keep  yourself 
still,  and  not  be  troubled  about  what  may  or  may  not 
happen,  but  be  glad  of  the  present  pleasure.' 

'  Don't  you  think  I  am  ? '  said  Albinia,  half  smiling ; 
*  so  glad,  that  I  grow  frightened  at  myself,  and — '  As  if 
fain  to  leave  the  subject,  she  added,  '  And  it  is  what  you 
don't  understand,  Maurice,  but  he  can't  be  the  first  to 
Edmund  as  he  is  to  me — never — and  when  I  get  almost 
jealous  for  him,  I  think  of  Gilbert  and  the  girls — and  oh ! 
there  is  so  much  to  do  for  them — they  want  a  mother  so 
much — and  Winifred  won't  let  me  see  them,  or  tell  me 
about  them  ! ' 

She  had  grown  piteous  and  incoherent,  and  a  glance 
from  Winifred  told  him,  '  this  is  always  the  way.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK.  101 

1  My  dear,  he  said,  '  you  will  never  be  fit  to  attend  to 
them,  if  you  do  not  use  this  present  time  rightly.  You 
may  hurt  your  health,  and  still  more  certainly,  you  will 
go  to  work  fretfully  and  impetuously.  If  you  have  a  busy 
life,  the  more  reason  to  learn  to  be  tranquil.  Calm  is 
forced  on  you  now,  and  if  you  give  way  to  useless  ner- 
vous brooding  over  the  work  you  are  obliged  to  lay  aside 
for  a  time,  you  have  no  right  to  hope  that  you  will  either 
have  judgment  or  temper  for  your  tasks.' 

'  But  how  am  I  to  keep  from  thinking,  Maurice  ?  The 
weaker  I  am,  the  more  I  think.' 

*  Are  you  dutiful  as  to  what  Winifred  there  thinks 
wisest  ?  Ah  !  Albinia,  you  want  to  learn,  as  poor  Queen 
Anne  of  Austria  did,  that  docility  in  illness  may  be  self- 
resignation  into  higher  Hands.  Perhaps  you  despise  it, 
but  it  is  no  mean  exercise  of  strength  and  resolution  to 
be  still.' 

Albinia  looked  at  him  as  if  receiving  a  new  idea. 

1  And,'  he  added,  bending  nearer  her  face,  and  speak- 
ing lower,  '  when  you  pray,  let  them  be  hearty  faithful 
prayers  that  God's  hand  may  be  over  your  child — your 
children,  not  half-hearted  faithless  ones,  that  He  may 
work  out  your  will  in  them.' 

*  Oh,  Maurice,  how  did  you  know  ?  But  you  are  not 
going  1     I  have  so  much  to  talk  over  with  you.' 

1  Yes,  I  must  go ;  and  you  must  be  still.  Indeed  I 
will  watch  over  Gilbert  as  though  he  were  mine.  Yes, 
even  more.  Don't  speak  again,  Albinia,  I  desire  you  will 
not.     Good-bye.' 

That  lecture  had  been  the  most  wholesome  treatment 
she  had  yet  received ;  she  ceased  to  give  way  without 
effort  to  restless  thoughts  and  cares,  and  was  much  less 
refractory. 

When  at  last  Lucy  and  Sophia  were  admitted,  Win- 
ifred found  perils  that  she  had  hot  anticipated.  Lucy 
was  indeed  supremely  and  girlishly  happy  :  but  it  was 
Sophy  whose  eye  Albinia  sought  with  anxiety,  and  that 
eye  was  averted.  Her  cheek  Mas  cold  like  that  of  a  doll 
when  Albinia  touched  it  eagerly  with  her  lips  ;  and  when 


102  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

Lucy  admonished  her  to  kiss  the  dear  little  brother,  she 
fairly  turned  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

'  Poor  Sophy  ! '  said  Lucy.  '  Never  mind  her,  mamma, 
but  she  is  odder  than  ever,  since  baby  has  been  born. 
When  Eweretta  came  up  and  told  us,  she  hid  her  face 
and  cried ;  and  when  grandmamma  wanted  to  make  us 
promise  to  love  him  with  all  our  hearts,  and  not  make 
any  difference,  she  would  only  say,  "  I  won't !  "  ' 

'  We  will  leave  him  to  take  care  of  that,  Lucy,'  said 
Albinia.  But  though  she  spoke  cheerfully,  Winifred  was 
not  surprised,  after  a  little  interval,  to  hear  sounds  like 
stifled  weeping. 

Almost  every  home  subject  was  so  dangerous,  that 
whenever  Mrs.  Ferrars  wanted  to  make  cheerful,  innocent 
conversation,  she  began  to  talk  of  her  visit  to  Ireland  and 
the  beautiful  Galway  coast,  and  the  O'Mores  of  Ballyma- 
kilty,  till  Albinia  grew  quite  sick  of  the  names  of  the 
whole  clan  of  thirty-six  cousins,  and  thought,  with  her 
aunts,  that  Winifred  was  too  Irish.  Yet,  at  any  other 
time,  the  histories  would  have  made  her  sometimes  laugh, 
and  sometimes  cry  ;  but  the  world  was  sadly  out  of  joint 
with  her. 

There  was  a  sudden  change  when,  for  the  first  time, 
her  eye  rested  on  the  lawn,  and  she  beheld  the  work  of 
drainage.  The  light  glanced  in  her  eye,  the  colour  rose 
on  her  cheek,  and  she  exclaimed,  '  How  kind  of  Ed- 
mund ! ' 

Winifred  must  needs  give  her  husband  his  share. 
'  Ah !  you  would  never  have  had  it  done  without 
Maurice.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Albinia, '  Edmund  has  been  out  of  the  way 
of  such  things ;  but  he  consented,  you  know.'  Then  as 
her  eyes  grew  liquid,  '  A  duck-pond  is  a  funny  subject  for 
sentiment,  but  oh  !  if  you  knew  what  that  place  has  been 
to  my  imagination  from  the  first,  and  how  the  wreaths 
of  mist  have  wound  themselves  into  spectres  in  my 
dreams,  and  stretched  out  white  shrouds  now  for  one, 
now  for  the  other  ! '  and  she  shuddered. 

1  And  you  have  gone  through  all  this  and  never 
}oken.    No  wonder  your  nerves  and  spirits  were  tried.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  103 

'  I  did  speak  at  first/  said  Albinia ;  '  but  I  thought 
Edmund  did  not  hear,  or  thought  it  nonsense,  and  so  did 
I  at  times.  But  you  see  he  did  attend  ;  he  always  does, 
you  see,  at  the  right  time.     It  was  only  my  impatience.' 

'  I  suspect  Maurice  and  John  Smith  had  more  to  do 
with  it,'  said  Winifred. 

1  Well,  we  won't  quarrel  about  that,'  said  Albinia.  '  I 
only  know  that  whoever  brought  it  about  has  taken  the 
heaviest  weight  off  my  mind  that  has  been  there  yet.' 

In  truth,  the  terror,  half  real,  half  imaginary,  had  been 
a  sorer  burthen  than  all  the  positive  cares  for  those  un- 
ruly children,  or  their  silent,  melancholy  father  ;  and  the 
relief  told  in  all  ways — above  all,  in  the  peace  with  which 
she  began  to  regard  her  child.  Still  she  would  provoke 
Winifred  by  bestowing  all  her  gratitude  on  Mr.  Kendal, 
who  began  to  be  persuaded  that  he  had  made  a  heroic 
exertion. 

Winifred  had  been  somewhat  scandalized  by  discov- 
ering Albinia's  deficiencies  in  the  furniture  development. 
She  was  too  active  and  stirring,  and  too  fond  of  out-of-door 
occupation  to  regard  interior  decoration  as  one  of  the  do- 
mestic graces ;  '  her  nest  was  rather  that  of  the  ostrich 
than  the  chaffinch,'  as  WTinifred  told  her  on  the  discovery 
that  her  morning-room  had  been  used  for  no  other  pur- 
pose than  as  a  deposit  for  all  the  books,  wedding  pres- 
ents, lumber,  &c,  which  she  had  never  had  leisure  to 
arrange. 

1  You  might  be  more  civil,'  answered  Albinia.  '  Re- 
member that  the  ringdove  never  made  half  such  a  fuss 
about  her  nest  as  the  magpie.' 

1  Well,  I  am  glad  you  have  found  some  likeness  in 
yourself  to  a  dove,'  rejoined  Winifred. 

Mrs.  Ferrars  set  vigorously  to  work  with  Lucy,  and 
rendered  the  room  so  pretty  and  pleasant,  that  Lucy  pro- 
nounced that  it  must  be  called  nothing  but  the  boudoir, 
for  it  was  a  perfect  little  bijou. 

Albinia  was  laid  on  the  sofa  by  the  sparkling  fire,  by 
her  side  the  little  cot,  and  in  her  hand  a  most  happy  af- 
fectionate letter  from  Gilbert,  detailing  the  Fairmead 
Christmas  festivities.     She  felt  the  invigoration  of  change 


104  THE   YOUNG  STEP-MOTHER. 

of  room,  admired  and  was  grateful  for  Winifred's  ■work, 
and  looked  so  fair  and  bright,  so  tranquil  and  so  con- 
tented, that  her  sister  and  husband  could  not  help  pausing 
to  contemplate  her  as  an  absolutely  new  creature  in  a 
state  of  quiescence. 

It  did  not  last  long,  and  Mrs.  Ferrars  felt  herself  the 
unwilling  culprit.  Attracted  by  sounds  in  the  hall,  she 
found  the  two  girls  receiving  from  the  hands  of  Genevieve 
Durant  a  pretty  basket  choicely  adorned  with  sprays  of 
myrtle,  saying  mamma  would  be  much  obliged,  and  they 
would  take  it  up  at  once ;  Genevieve  should  take  home 
her  basket,  and  down  plunged  their  hands  regardless  of 
the  garniture. 

Genevieve's  disappointed  look  caught  Winifred's  at- 
tention, and  springing  forward  she  exclaimed,  '  You  shall 
come  to  Mrs.  Kendal  yourself,  my  dear.  She  must  see 
your  pretty  basket,'  and  yourself,  she  could  have  added, 
as  she  met  the  grateful  glitter  of  the  dark  eyes. 

Lucy  remonstrated  that  mamma  had  seen  no  one  yet, 
not  even  Aunt  Maria,  but  Mrs.  Ferrars  would  not  listen ; 
and  treading  airily,  yet  with  reverence  that  would  have 
befitted  a  royal  palace,  Genevieve  was  ushered  upstairs, 
and  with  heartfelt  sweetness,  and  timid  grace,  presented 
her  etrennes. 

Under  the  fragrant  sprays  lay  a  small  white  paper 
parcel,  tied  with  narrow  blue  satin  bows,  such  as  no 
English  fingers  could  accomplish,  and  within  was  a  little 
frock-body,  exquisitely  embroidered,  with  a  breastplate 
of  actual  point  lace  in  a  pattern  like  frostwork  on  the 
windows.  It  was  such  work  as  Madame  Belmarche  had 
learnt  in  a  convent  in  times  of  history,  and  poor  little 
Genevieve  had  almost  worn  out  her  black  eyes  on  this 
piece  of  homage  to  her  dear  Mrs.  Kendal,  grieving  only 
that  she  had  not  been  able  to  add  the  length  of  robe 
needed  to  complete  her  gift. 

Albinia's  kiss  was  recompence  beyond  her  dreams, 
and  she  fairly  cried  for  joy  when  she  was  told  that  she 
should  come  and  help  to  dress  the  baby  in  it  for  his 
christening.  Mrs.  Ferrars  would  walk  out  with  her  at 
once  to  buy  a  sufficiency  of  cambric  for  the  mighty  skirts. 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  105 

That  visit  was  indeed  nothing  but  pleasure,  but  Mrs. 
Ferrars  had  not  calculated  on  contingencies  and  family 
punctilios.  She  forgot  that  it  would  be  a  mortal  offence 
to  let  in  any  one  rather  than  Miss  Meadows ;  but  the  rest 
of  the  family  were  so  well  aware  of  it,  that  when  she  re- 
turned she  heard  a  perfect  sparrow's-nest  of  voices — 
Lucy's  pert  and  eager,  Miss  Meadows's  injured  and  shrill, 
and  Albinia's,  alas  !  thin  and  loud,  half  sarcasm,  half 
fret. 

There  sat  Aunt  Maria  fidgeting  in  the  arm-chair ; 
Lucy  stood  by  the  fire ;  Albinia's  countenance  sadly  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  had  been  in  the  morning — weary,  im- 
patient, and  excited,  all  that  it  ought  not  to  be  ! 

Winifred  would  have  cleared  the  room  at  once,  but 
this  was  not  easy,  and  poor  Albinia  was  so  far  gone  as  to 
be  determined  on  finishing  that  endless  thing,  an  alter- 
cation ;  so  all  three  began  explaining  and  appealing  at 
once. 

It  seemed  that  Mrs.  Osborn  was  requiting  Mrs.  Ken- 
dal's neglect  in  not  having  inquired  after  her  when  the 
Admiral's  sister's  husband  died,  by  the  omission  of  in- 
quiries at  present ;  whereat  Albinia  laughed  a  feeble, 
overdone  giggle,  and  observed  that  she  believed  Mrs. 
Osborn  knew  all  that  passed  in  Willow  Lawn  better  than 
the  inmates  ;  and  Lucy  deposed  that  Sophy  and  Loo  were 
together  every  day,  though  Sophy  knew  mamma  did  not 
like  it.  Miss  Meadows  said  if  reparation  were  not  made, 
the  Osborns  had  expressed  their  intention  of  omitting 
Lucy  and  Sophy  from  their  Twelfth-day  party. 

To  this  Albinia  pettishly  replied  that  the  girls  were 
to  go  to  no  Christmas  parties  without  her ;  Miss  Mead- 
ows had  taken  it  very  much  to  heart,  and  Lucy  was  de- 
claiming against  mamma  making  any  condescension  to 
Mrs.  Osborn,  or  herself  being  supposed  to  care  for  '  the 
Osborn's  parties,'  where  the  boys  were  so  rude  and  vulgar, 
the  girls  so  boisterous,  and  the  dancing  a  mere  romp. 
Sophy  might  like  it,  but  she  never  did  ! 

Miss  Meadows  was  hurt  by  her  niece's  defection,  and 
had  come  to  '  Oh,  very  well,'  and  '  things  were  altered,' 
and  '  people  used  to  be  grateful  to  old  friends,  but  there 
5* 


106  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHKR. 

were  changes.'  And  thereby  Lucy  grew  personal  as  to 
the  manners  of  the  Osborns,  while  Albinia  defended  her- 
self against  the  being  grand  or  exclusive,  but  it  was  her 
duty  to  do  what  she  thought  right  for  the  children  !  Yes, 
Miss  Meadows  was  quite  aware — only  grandmamma  was 
so  nervous  about  poor  dear  Gibbie  missing  his  Christmas 
dinner  for  the  first  time — being  absent — Mrs.  Ferrars 
would  take  great  care,  but  damp  stockings  and  all — 

Winifred  endeavoured  to  stem  the  tide  of  words,  but 
in  vain,  between  the  meandering  incoherency  of  the  one, 
and  the  nervous  rapidity  of  the  other,  and  they  had  both 
set  off  again  on  this  fresh  score,  when  in  despair  she  ran 
downstairs,  rapped  at  the  study  door,  and  cried,  '  Mr. 
Kendal,  Mr.  Kendal,  will  you  not  come?  I  can't  get 
Miss  Meadows  out  of  Albinia's  room.' 

Forth  came  Mr.  Kendal,  walked  straight  upstairs,  and 
stood  in  full  majesty  on  the  threshold.  Holding  out  his 
hand  to  Maria  with  grave  courtesy,  he  thanked  her  for 
coming  to  see  his  wife,  but  at  the  same  time  handed  her 
down,  saw  her  out  safely  at  the  hall  door,  and  Lucy  into 
the  drawing-room. 

It  was  a  pity  that  he  had  not  returned  to  Albinia's 
room,  for  she  was  too  much  excited  to  be  composed  with- 
out authority.  First,  she  scolded  Winifred  ;  '  it  was  the 
thing  she  most  wished  to  avoid,  that  he  should  fancy  her 
teased  by  anything  the  Meadowses  could  say,'  and  she 
laughed,  and  protested  she  never  was  vexed,  such  absur- 
dity did  not  hurt  her  in  the  least. 

'  It  has  tired  you,  though,'  said  Winifred.  '  Lie  quite 
down  and  sleep.' 

Of  course,  however,  Albinia  would  not  believe  that 
she  was  tired,  and  began  to  talk  of  the  Osborns  and  their 
party — she  was  annoyed  at  the  being  thought  too  fine. 
1  If  it  were  not  such  a  penance,  and  if  you  would  not  be 
gone  home,  I  really  would  ask  you  to  take  the  girls, 
Winifred.' 

'  I  shall  not  be  gone  home.' 

'  Yes,  you  will.    I  am  well,  and  every  one  wants  you.' 

'  Did  you  not  hear  Willie's  complimentary  message, 
that  he  is  never  naughty  now,  because  Gilbert  makes  him 
so  happy  ? ' 


THE   YOTJNG   STEP-MOTHER.  107 

1  But,  Winifred,  the  penny  club  !  The  people  must 
have  their  things.' 

1  They  can  wait,  or — ' 

*  It  is  very  well  for  us  to  talk  of  waiting,'  cried  Al- 
binia,  '  but  how  should  we  like  a  frosty  night  without 
cloaks,  or  blankets,  or  fire  ?  I  did  not  think  it  of  you, 
Winifred.  It  is  the  first  winter  I  have  been  away  from 
my  poor  old  dames,  and  I  did  think  you  would  have  cared 
for  them.' 

And  thereupon  her  overwrought  spirits  gave  way  in 
a  flood  of  tears,  as  she  angrily  averted  her  face  from  her 
sister,  who  could  have  cried  too,  not  at  the  injustice,  but 
with  compassion  and  perplexity  lest  there  should  be  an 
equally  violent  reaction  either  of  remorse  or  of  mirth. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Albinia  was  very  much  the 
creature  of  health.  Never  having  been  ill  before,  the  de- 
pression had  been  so  new  that  it  broke  her  completely 
down  ;  convalescence  made  her  fractious. 

Recovery,  however,  filled  her  with  such  an  ecstasy  of 
animal  spirits  that  her  time  seemed  to  be  entirely  passed 
in  happiness  or  in  sleep,  and  cares  appeared  to  have  lost 
all  power.  It  was  so  sudden  a  change  that  Winifred  was 
startled,  though  it  was  a  very  pleasant  one,  and  she  did 
not  reflect  that  this  was  as  far  from  the  calm,  self- 
restrained,  meditative  tranquillity  enjoined  by  Maurice, 
as  had  been  the  previous  restless,  querulous  state.  Both 
were  body  more  than  mind,  but  Mrs.  Ferrars  was  much 
more  ready  to  be  merry  with  Albinia  than  to  moralize 
about  her.  And  it  was  droll  that  the  penny  club  was  one 
of  the  first  stages  in  her  revival. 

1  Oh,  mamma,'  cried  Lucy,  flying  in, '  Mr.  Dusautoy 
is  at  the  door.  There  is  such  a  to  do.  All  the  women 
have  been  getting  gin  with  their  penny  club  tickets,  and 
Mrs.  Brock  has  been  stealing  the  money,  and  Mr.  Du- 
sautoy wants  to  know  if  you  paid  up  three-and-fourpence 
for  the  Hancock  children.' 

Albinia  instantly  invited  Mr.  Dusautoy  to  explain  in 
person,  and  he  entered,  hearty  and  pleasant  as  ever,  but 
in  great  haste,  for  he  had  left  his  Fanny  keeping  the 
peace  between  five  angry  women,  while  he  came  out  to 
collect  evidence. 


108  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

The  Bayford  clothing-club  payments  were  collected 
by  Mrs.  Brock,  the  sexton's  wife,  and  distributed  by 
tickets  to  be  produced  at  the  various  shops  in  the  town. 
Mrs.  Brock  had  detected  some  women  exchanging  their 
tickets  for  gin,  and  the  offending  parties  retaliated  by  ac- 
cusing her  of  embezzling  the  subscriptions,  both  parties 
launching  into  the  usual  amount  of  personalities  and  ex- 
aggerations. 

Albinia's  testimony  cleared  Mrs.  Brock  as  to  the 
three-and-fourpence,  but  she  '  snuffed  the  battle  from 
afar/  and  rushed  into  a  scheme  of  taking  the  clothing-club 
into  her  own  hands,  collecting  the  pence,  having  the 
goods  from  London,  and  selling  them  herself — she  would 
propose  it  on  the  very  first  opportunity  to  the  Dusau- 
toys.  Winifred  asked  if  she  had  not  a  good  deal  on  her 
hands  already. 

1  My  dear,  I  have  the  work  in  me  of  a  young  giant.' 

*  And  will  Mr.  Kendal  like  it  1 ' 

'  He  would  never  find  it  out  unless  I  told  him,  and 
very  possibly  not  then.  Six  months  hence,  perhaps,  he 
may  tell  me  he  is  glad  that  Lucy  is  inclined  to  useful 
pursuits,  and  that  is  approval,  Winifred,  much  more  than 
if  I  went  and  worried  him  about  every  little  petty  wo- 
man's matter.' 

4  Every  one  to  her  taste,'  thought  Winifred,  who  had 
begun  to  regard  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal  in  the  same  rela- 
tion as  the  king  and  queen  at  chess. 

The  day  before  the  christening,  Mr.  Ferrars  brought 
back  Gilbert  and  his  own  little  Willie. 

Through  all  the  interchange  of  greetings,  Gilbert 
would  hardly  let  go  Albinia's  hand,  and  the  moment  her 
attention  was  free,  he  earnestly  whispered,  *  May  I  see 
my  brother  % ' 

She  took  him  upstairs  at  once.  c  Let  me  look  a  little 
while,'  he  said,  hanging  over  the  child  with  a  sort  of 
hungry  fondness  and  curiosity.  '  My  brother !  my 
brother  ! '  he  repeated,  i  It  has  rung  in  my  ears  every 
morning  that  I  can  say  my  brother  once  more,  till  I  have 
feared  it  was  a  dream. 

It  was  the  sympathy  Albinia  cared  for,  come  back 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  109 

again  !  '  I  hope  he  will  be  a  good  brother  to  you,'  she 
said. 

1  He  must  be  good  !  he  can't  help  it !  He  has  you  ! ' 
said  Gilbert.  '  See,  he  is  opening  his  eyes — oh !  how 
blue  !     May  I  touch  him  ? 

'  To  be  sure  you  may.  He  is  not  sugar,'  said  A1- 
binia,  laughing.  '  There — make  an  arm  ;  you  may  have 
him  if  you  like.  Your  left  arm,  you  awkward  man. 
Yes,  that  is  right.  You  will  do  quite  as  well  as  I,  who 
never  touched  a  baby  till  Willie  was  born.  There,  sir, 
how  do  you  like  your  brother,  Gilbert  ? ' 

Gilbert  held  him  reverently,  and  gave  him  back  with 
a  sigh  when  he  seemed  to  have  satiated  his  gaze  and 
touch,  and  convinced  himself  that  his  new  possession  was 
substantial.  '  I  say,'  he  added  wistfully, '  did  you  think 
that  name  would  bring  ill-luck  ? ' 

She  knew  the  name  he  meant,  and  answered, '  No,  but 
your  father  could  not  have  borne  it.  Besides,  Gibbie,  we 
would  not  think  him  instead  of  Edmund.  No,  he  shall 
learn  to  look  up  to  his  other  brother  as  you  do,  and  look 
to  meeting  and  knowing  him  some  day.' 

Gilbert  shivered  at  this,  and  made  no  opposition  to 
her  carrying  him  downstairs  to  his  uncle ;  and  then  Gil- 
bert hurried  off  for  the  basket  of  snowdrops  that  he  had 
gathered  early,  from  a  favourite  spot  at  Fairmead.  That 
short  absence  seemed  to  have  added  double  force  to  his 
affection ;  he  could  hardly  bear  to  be  away  from  her,  and 
every  moment  when  he  could  gain  her  ear,  poured  his- 
tories of  the  delights  of  Fairmead,  where  Mr.  Ferrars 
had  devoted  himself  to  his  amusement,  and  had  made 
him  happier  than  perhaps  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life — 
he  had  had  a  taste  of  shooting,  of  skating,  of  snowballing 
— he  had  been  useful  and  important  in  the  village  feasts, 
had  dined  twice  at  Colonel  Bury's,  and  felt  himself  many 
degrees  nearer  manhood. 

To  hear  of  her  old  haunts  and  friends  from  such  en- 
thusiastic lips,  delighted  Albinia,  and  her  felicity  with 
her  baby,  with  Mr.  Kendal,  with  her  brother  and  his  little 
son,  was  one  of  the  brightest  things  in  all  the  world— the 


110  THE    YOUNG    STEP-il  OTHER. 

fresh  young  loving  bloom  of  her  matronhood  was  even 
sweeter  and  more  beautiful  than  her  girlish  days. 

Poor  little  frail,  blighted  Mrs.  Dusautoy  !  Winifred 
could  not  help  wondering  if  the  contrast  pained  her,  when 
in  all  the  glory  of  her  motherly  thankfulness,  Albinia  car- 
ried her  beautiful  newly-christened  Maurice  Ferrars  Ken- 
dal to  the  vicarage  to  show  him  off,  lying  so  open-chested 
and  dignified,  in  Genevieve's  pretty  work,  with  a  sort  of 
manly  serenity  already  dawning  on  his  baby  brow. 

Winifred  need  not  have  pitied  the  little  lady.  She 
would  not  have  changed  with  Mrs.  Kendal — no,  not  for 
that  perfect  health,  usefulness,  value — nor  even  for  such  a 
baby  as  that.  No,  indeed  !  She  loved — she  rejoiced  in 
all  her  friend's  sweet  and  precious  gifts — but  Mrs.  Du- 
sautoy had  one  gift  that  she  prized  above  all. 

Even  grandmamma  and  Aunt  Maria  did  justice  to 
Master  Maurice's  attractions,  at  least  in  public,  though 
it  came  round  that  Miss  Meadows  did  not  admire  fat 
children,  and  when  he  had  once  been  seen  in  Lucy's  arms, 
an  alarm  arose  that  Mrs.  Kendal  would  allow  the  girls  to 
carry  him  about,  till  his  weight  made  them  crooked  ;  but 
Albinia  was  too  joyous  to  take  their  displeasure  to  heart, 
and  it  only  served  her  for  something  to  laugh  at. 

They  had  a  very  happy  christening  party,  chiefly  ju- 
venile, in  honour  of  little  Willie  and  of  Francis  and 
Emily  Nugent.  Albinia  was  so  radiantly  lively  and 
good-natured,  and  her  assistants,  Winifred,  Maurice,  and 
Mr.  Dusautoy,  so  kind,  so  droll,  so  inventive,  that  even 
Aunt  Maria  forgot  herself  in  enjoyment  and  novelty,  and 
was  like  a  different  person.  Mr.  Kendal  looked  at  her 
with  a  pleased  sad  wonder,  and  told  his  wife  it  reminded 
him  of  what  she  had  been  when  she  was  nearly  the  pret- 
tiest girl  at  Bayford. 

Gilbert  devoted  himself  as  usual  to  making  Genevieve 
feel  welcome ;  and  she  had  likewise  Willie  Ferrars  and 
Francis  Nugent  at  her  feet.  Neither  urchin  would  sit 
two  inches  away  from  her  all  the  evening,  and  in  all 
games  she  was  obliged  to  obviate  jealousies  by  being 
partner  to  both  at  once.  Where  there  was  no  one  to 
oppress  her,  she  came  out  with  all  her  natural  grace  and 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-ilOTIIEE.  Ill 

vivacity,  and  people  of  a  larger  growth  than  her  little 
admirers  were  charmed  with  her. 

Lucy  was  obliging,  ready,  and  useful,  and  looked  very 
pretty ;  the  only  blot  was  the  heavy  dulness  of  poor 
Sophy,  who  seemed  resolved  to  take  pleasure  in  nothing. 
Winifred  varied  in  opinion  whether  her  moodiness  arose 
from  ill-health,  or  from  jealousy  of  her  little  brother. 
This  latter  Albinia  would  not  believe,  especially  as  she 
saw  that  little  Maurice's  blue  eyes  were  magnets  that 
held  the  silent  Sophy  fast,  but  surly  denials  silenced  her 
interrogations  as  to  illness,  and  made  her  content  to  ac- 
quiesce in  Lucy's  explanation  that  Sophy  was  only  cross 
because  the  Osborns  and  Drurys  were  not  asked. 

Albinia  did  her  duty  handsomely  by  the  two  families* 
a  day  or  two  after,  for  whatever  reports  might  come 
round,  they  were  always  ready  to  receive  her  advances, 
and  she  only  took  notice  of  what  she  saw,  instead  of  what 
she  heard.  Her  brother  helped  Mr.  Kendal  through  the 
party,  and  Winifred  made  a  discovery  that  excited  her 
more  than  Albinia  thought  warranted  by  any  fact  relat- 
ing to  the  horde  of  Irish  cousins. 

1  Only  think,  Albinia,  I  have  found  out  that  poor  Ellen 
O'More  is  Mr.  Goldsmith's  sister  ! ' 

1  Indeed  !  But  I  am  afraid  I  don't  remember  which 
Ellen  O'More  is.  You  know  I  never  undertake  to  recollect 
any  but  your  real  cousins  out  of  the  thirty-six.' 

'  For  shame,  Albinia  ;  I  have  so  often  told  you  about 
Ellen.  I'm  sure  you  can't  forget.  Her  husband  is  my 
sister's  brother-in-law's  cousin.' 

<  Oh,  Winifred,  Winifred  ! ' 

'  But  I  tell  you  her  husband  is  the  third  son  of  old 
Mr.  O'More  of  Ballamakilty,  and  was  in  the  army.' 

'  Oh  !  the  half-pay  officer  with  the  twelve  children  in 
the  cottage  on  the  estate.' 

'  There  now,  I  did  think  you  would  care  when  I  told 
you  of  a  soldier,  a  Waterloo  man  too  ;  and  you  only  call 
him  a  half-pay  officer  ! ' 

'  I  do  remember,'  said  Albinia,  taking  a  little  pity, 
1  that  you  used  to  be  sorry  for  his  good  little  English 
wife.' 


112  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK. 

1  Of  course.  I  knew  she  had  married  him  very  im- 
prudently, but  she  had  struggled  gallantly  with  ill-health, 
and  poverty,  and  Irish  recklessness.  I  quite  venerate 
her,  and  it  seems  these  Goldsmiths  had  so  far  cast  her  off 
that  they  had  no  notion  of  the  extent  of  her  troubles.' 

'  Just  like  them,'  said  Albinia.  '  Is  that  the  reason 
you  wish  me  to  make  the  most  of  the  connexion  ?  Let 
me  see,  my  sister-in-law's  sister's  wife — no,  husband's 
brother's  uncle,  eh  %  ' 

'  I  don't  want  you  to  do  anything,'  said  Winifred,  a 
little  hurt ;  '  only  if  you  had  seen  Ellen's  patient  face  you 
would  be  interested  in  her.' 

i  Well,  I  am  interested ;  you  know  I  am,  Winifred. 
I  hope  you  interested  our  respected  banker,  which  would 
be  more  to  the  purpose.' 

'  I  think  I  did,'  said  Winifred  ;  '  at  least  he  said  "  poor 
Ellen  "  once  or  twice.  I  don't  want  him  to  do  anything 
for  the  captain ;  you  might  give  him  a  thousand  pounds 
and  he  would  never  be  the  better  for  it :  but  that  fourth 
boy,  Ulick,  is  without  exception  the  nicest  fellow  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life — so  devoted  to  his  mother,  so  much  more 
considerate  and  self-denying  than  any  of  the  others,  and 
very  clever.  Maurice  examined  him  and  was  quite  as- 
tonished. We  did  get  him  sent  to  St.  Columba  for  the 
present,  but  whether  they  will  keep  him  there  no  one  can 
guess,  and  it  is  the  greatest  pity  he  should  run  to  waste. 
I  told  Mr.  Goldsmith  all  this,  and  I  really  think  he 
seemed  to  attend.     I  wonder  if  it  will  work.' 

Albinia  was  by  this  time  anxious  that  it  should  take 
effect,  and  they  agreed  that  an  old  bachelor  banker  and 
his  sister,  both  past  sixty,  were  the  very  people  to  adopt 
a  promising  nephew. 

What  had  become  of  the  multitude  of  things  which 
Albinia  had  to  discuss  with  her  brother  ?  The  floodtide 
of  bliss  had  floated  her  over  all  the  stumbling-blocks  and 
shoals  that  the  ebb  had  disclosed  ;  and  she  had  absolutely 
forgotten  all  the  perplexities  that  had  seemed  so  trying. 
Even  when  she  sought  a  private  interview  to  talk  to  him 
about  Gilbert,  it  was  in  full  security  of  hearing  the 
praises  of  her  darling. 


THE  YOUNG  STEP-MOTHEE.  113 

1  A  nice  boy,  a  very  nice  boy,'  returned  Maurice ; 
4  most  amiable  and  intelligent,  and  particularly  engaging, 
from  his  feeling  being  so  much  on  the  surface.' 

'  Nothing  can  be  more  sincere  and  genuine,'  she  cried, 
as  if  this  fell  a  little  fiat. 

4  Certainly  not,  at  the  time.' 

4  Always  ! '  exclaimed  Albinia.  '  You  must  not  dis- 
trust him  because  he  is  not  like  you  or  Fred,  and  has 
never  been  hardened  and  taught  reserve  by  rude  boys. 
Nothing  -was  ever  more  real  than  his  affection,  poor  dear 
boy,'  and  the  tears  thrilled  to  her  eyes. 

'  No,  and  it  is  much  to  his  credit.  His  love  and  grat- 
itude to  you  are  quite  touching,  poor  fellow;  but  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  I  am  afraid  he  is  very  timid,  both 
physically  and  morally.' 

Often  as  she  had  experienced  this  truth,  the  soldier's 
daughter  could  not  bear  to  avow  it,  and  she  answered 
hastily,  '  He  has  never  been  braced  or  trained ;  he  was 
always  ill  till  within  the  last  few  years — coddling  at  first, 
neglect  afterwards,  he  has  it  all  to  lesrn,  and  it  is  too  late 
for  school.' 

4  Yes,  he  is  too  old  to  be  laughed  at  or  bullied  out  of 
cowardice.  Indeed,  I  doubt  whether  there  ever  would 
have  been  substance  enough  for  much  wear  and  tear.' 

4 I  know  you  have  a  turn  for  riotous,  obstinate  boys  ! 
You  want  Willie  to  be  another  Fred,'  said  Albinia,  like 
an  old  hen,  ruffling  up  her  feathers.  '  You  think  a  boy 
can't  be  good  for  anything  unless  he  is  a  universal 
plague ! ' 

4 1  wonder  what  you  will  do  with  your  own  son,'  said 
Maurice,  amused,  '  since  you  take  Gilbert's  part  so 
fiercely.' 

4 1  trust  my  boy  will  never  be  as  much  to  be  pitied 
as  his  brother,'  said  Albinia,  with  tenderness  that  accused 
her  petulance.  '  At  least  he  can  never  be  a  lonely  twin 
with  that  sore  spot  in  his  heart.  Oh,  Maurice,  how  can 
any  one  help  dealing  gently  with  my  poor  Gibbie  1 ' 

4  Gentle  dealing  is  the  very  thing  he  wants,'  said  Mr. 
Ferrars ;  4  and  I  am  thinking  how  to  find  it  for  him. 
How  did  his  going  to  Traversham  fail  1 ' 


114  THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTILLH:. 

'  I  don't  know ;  Edmund  did  not  like  to  send  him 
without  having  seen  Traversham,  and  I  could  not  go. 
But  I  don't  think  there  is  any  need  for  his  going  away. 
His  father  has  been  quite  enough  tormented  about  it,  and 
I  can  manage  him  very  well  now.  He  is  always  good 
and  happy  with  me.  I  mean  to  try  to  ride  with  him,  and 
I  have  promised  to  teach  him  music,  and  we  shall  garden. 
Never  fear,  I  will  employ  him  and  keep  him  out  of  mis- 
chief— it  is  all  pleasure  to  me.' 

'  And  pray  what  are  your  daughters  and  baby  to  do, 
while  you  are  galloping  after  Gilbert  ?  ' 

1  Oh  !  I'll  manage.  We  can  all  do  things  together. 
Come,  Maurice,  I  won't  have  Edmund  teazed,  and  I  can't 
bear  parting  with  any  of  them,  or  think  that  any  strange 
man  can  treat  Gibbie  as  I  should.' 

Maurice  was  edified  by  his  sister's  warm-hearted 
weakness,  but  not  at  all -inclined  to  let  '  Edmund'  escape 
a  '  teazing.' 

Mr.  Kendal's  first  impulse  always  was  to  find  a  suffi- 
cient plea  for  doing  nothing.  If  Gilbert  was  to  go  to 
India,  it  was  not  worth  while  to  give  him  a  classical  edu- 
cation. 

'  Is  he  to  go  to  India  ?     Albinia  had  not  told  me  so.' 

'  I  thought  she  was  aware  of  it ;  but  possibly  I  may 
not  have  mentioned  it.  It  has  been  an  understood  thing 
ever  since  I  came  home.  He  will  have  a  good  deal  of  the 
property  in  this  place,  but  he  had  better  have  seen  some- 
thing of  the  world.  Bayford  is  no  place  for  a  man  to 
settle  down  in  too  young.' 

1  Certainly,'  said  Mr.  Ferrers,  repressing  a  smile. 
'  Then  are  you  thinking  of  sending  him  to  Haileybury  ? ' 

He  was  pronounced  too  young ;  besides,  it  was  ex- 
plained that  his  destination  in  India  was  unfixed.  On 
going  home  it  had  been  a  kind  of  promise  that  one  of  the 
twin  brothers  should  have  an  appointment  in  the  civil 
service,  the  other  should  enter  the  bank  of  Kendal  and 
Kendal ;  and  the  survivor  was  unconsciously  suspended 
between  these  alternatives,  while  the  doubt  served  as  a 
convenient  protection  to  his  father  from  making  up  his 
mind  to  prepare  him  for  either  of  these  or  for  anything 
else. 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  115 

The  prompt  Ferrars'  temper  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
and  Maurice  spoke  out.  '  I'll  tell  you  what,  Kendal,  it  is 
time  to  attend  to  your  own  concerns.  If  you  choose  to 
let  your  son  run  to  ruin,  because  you  will  not  exert  your- 
self to  remove  him  from  temptation,  I  shall  not  stand  by 
to  see  my  sister  worn  out  with  making  efforts  to  save 
him.  She  is  willing  and  devoted,  she  fancies  she  could 
work  day  and  night  to  preserve  him,  and  she  does  it  with 
all  her  heart ;  but  it  is  not  woman's  work,  she  cannot  do 
it,  and  it  is  not  fit  to  leave  it  to  her.  When  Gilbert  has 
broken  her  heart  as  well  as  yours,  and  left  an  evil  exam- 
ple to  his  brother,  then  you  will  feel  what  it  is  to  have 
kept  a  lad  whom  you  know  to  be  well  disposed,  but  weak 
as  water,  in  the  very  midst  of  contamination,  and  to  have 
left  your  young,  inexperienced  wife  to  struggle  alone  to 
save  him.  If  you  arc  unwarned  by  the  experience  of 
last  autumn  and  winter,  I  could  not  pity  you,  whatever 
might  happen.' 

Maurice,  who  had  run  on  the  longer  because  Mr.  Ken- 
dal did  not  answer  immediately,  was  shocked  at  his  own 
impetuosity  ;  but  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder  was  not  more 
than  was  requisite. 

'  I  believe  you  are  right,'  Mr.  Kendal  said.  1 1  was  to 
blame  for  leaving  him  so  entirely  to  Albinia ;  but  she  is 
very  fond  of  him,  and  is  one  who  will  never  be  induced 
to  spare  herself,  and  there  "were  considerations.  How- 
ever, she  shall  be  relieved  at  once.  What  do  you  recom- 
mend ? ' 

Mr.  Ferrars  actually  made  Mr.  Kendal  promise  to 
set  out  for  Traversham  with  him  next  morning,  thirty 
miles  by  the  railway,  to  inspect  Mr.  Downton  and  his 
pupils. 

Albinia  had  just  sense  enough  not  to  object,  though 
the  discovery  of  the  Indian  plans  was  such  a  blow  to  her 
that  she  could  not  be  consoled  by  all  her  husband's  repre- 
sentations of  the  advantages  Gilbert  would  derive  there, 
and  of  his  belief  that  the  Kendal  constitution  always  de- 
rived strength  from  a  hot  climate ;  and  that  to  himself 
going  to  India  seemed  going  home.  She  took  refuge  in 
the   hope   that   between  the  two   Indian   stools,  Gilbert 


110  THE   YOUXG    STEP-MOTHEK. 

might  fall  upon  one  of  the  professions  which  she  thought 
alone  worthy  of  man's  attention,  the  clerical  or  the  mil- 
itary. 

Under  Maurice's  escort,  Mr.  Kendal  greatly  enjoyed 
his  expedition ;  liked  Traversham,  was  satisfied  with  the 
looks  of  the  pupils,  and  very  much  pleased  with  the  tutor, 
whom  he  even  begged  to  come  to  Bay  ford  for  a  confer- 
ence with  Mrs.  Kendal,  and  this  was  received  by  her  as 
no  small  kindness.  She  was  delighted  with  Mr.  Down- 
ton,  and  felt  as  if  Gilbert  could  be  safely  trusted  in  his 
charge  ;  nor  was  Gilbert  himself  reluctant.  He  was  glad 
to  escape  from  his  tempter,  and  to  begin  a  new  life,  and 
though  he  hung  about  Mrs.  Kendal  and  implored  her  to 
write  often,  and  always  tell  him  about  his  little  brother 
— nay,  though  he  cried  like  a  child  at  the  last,  yet  still  he 
was  happy  and  satisfied  to  go,  and  to  break  the  painful 
fetters  which  had  held  him  so  long. 

And  though  Albinia  likewise  shed  some  parting  tears, 
she  could  not  but  own  that  she  was  glad  to  have  him  in 
trustworthy  hands ;  and  as  to  the  additional  time  thus 
gained,  it  was  disposed  of  in  a  million  of  bright  plans 
for  every  one's  service — daughters,  baby,  parish,  school, 
classes,  clubs,  neighbours.  It  almost  made  Winifred 
giddy  to  hear  how  much  she  had  undertaken,  and  yet 
with  what  zest  she  talked  and  acted. 

'  There's  your  victim,  Winifred,'  said  Maurice,  as 
they  drove  away,  and  looked  back  at  Albinia,  scandal- 
izing Bay  ford  by  standing  in  the  open  gateway,  her  face 
all  smiles  of  cheerful  parting,  the  sun  and  wind  making 
merry  with  her  chestnut  curls,  her  baby  in  one  arm,  the 
other  held  up  to  wave  her  farewell. 

'  That  child  will  catch  cold,'  began  Winifred,  turning 
to  sign  her  to  go  in.  '  Well,'  she  continued,  '  after  all,  I 
believe  some  people  like  an  idol  that  sits  quiet  to  be  wor- 
shipped !  To  be  sure  she  must  want  to  beat  him  some- 
times, as  the  Africans  do  their  gods.  But,  on  the  whole, 
her  sentiment  of  reverence  is  satisfied,  and  she  likes  the 
acting  for  herself,  and  reigning  absolute.  Yes,  she  is 
quite  happy — why  do  you  look  doubtful?  Don't  you 
admire  her  ? ' 


THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  117 

1  From  my  heart.' 

'  Then  why  do  you  doubt  ?     Do  you  expect  her  to  do 
anything  ? ' 

'  A  little  too  much  of  everything.' 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


Yes  !  Albinia  was  excessively  happy.  Her  naturally 
high  spirits  were  enhanced  by  the  enjoyment  of  recovery, 
and  reaction  from  her  former  depression.  Since  the  great 
stroke  of  the  drainage,  every  one  looked  better,  and  her 
pride  in  her  babe  was  without  a  drawback.  He  seemed 
to  have  inherited  her  vigour  and  superabundance  of  life, 
and  '  that  first  wondrous  spring  to  all  but  babes  un- 
known,' was  in  him  unusually  rapid ;  so  that  he  was  a 
marvel  of  fair  stateliness,  size,  strength,  and  intelligence ; 
so  unlike  the  little  blighted  buds  which  had  been  wont  to 
fade  at  Willow  Lawn,  that  his  father  watched  him  with 
silent,  wondering  affection,  and  his  eldest  sister  was  un- 
merciful in  her  descriptions  of  his  progress ;  while  even 
Sophia  had  not  been  proof  against  his  smiles,  and  was 
proud  to  be  allowed  to  carry  him  about  and  fondle  him. 

Neither  was  Mr.  Kendal's  reserve  the  trial  that  it  had 
once  been.  After  having  become  habituated  to  it  as  a 
necessary  idiosyncrasy,  she  had  become  rather  proud  of 
his  lofty  inaccessibility.  Besides,  her  brother's  visit,  her 
recovery,  and  the  renewed  hope  and  joy  in  this  promising 
child,  had  not  been  without  effect  in  rousing  him  from  his 
apathy.  He  was  less  inclined  to  shun  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, had  become  friendly  with  the  vicar,  and  had  even 
let  Albinia  take  him  into  Mrs.  Dusautoy's  drawing-room, 
where  he  had  been  fairly  happy.  Having  once  begun 
taking  his  wife  out  in  the  carriage,  he  found  this  much 
more  agreeable  than  his  solitary  ride,  and  was  in  the  con- 
dition to  which  Albinia  had  once  imagined  it  possible  to 
bring  him,  in  which  gentle  means  and  wholesome  influ- 


118  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

ence  might  lead  him  imperceptibly  out  of  his  morbid 
habits  of  self-absorjDtion. 

Unfortunately,  in  the  flush  of  blitheness  and  "whirl  of 
activity,  Albinia  failed  to  perceive  the  relative  import- 
ance of  objects,  and  he  had  taught  her  to  believe  herself 
so  little  necessary  to  him  that  she  had  not  learnt  to  make 
her  pursuits  and  occupations  subservient  to  his  conven- 
ience. As  long  as  the  drive  took  place  regularly,  all 
was  well,  but  he  caught  a  severe  cold,  which  lasted  even 
to  the  setting  in  of  the  east  winds,  the  yearly  misery  of  a 
man  who  hardly  granted  that  India  was  over-hot.  Though 
Albinia  had  removed  much  listing  and  opened  various 
doors  and  windows,  he  made  no  complaints,  but  did  his 
best  to  keep  the  obnoxious  fresh  air  out  of  his  study,  and 
seldom  crossed  the  threshold  thereof  but  with  a  shiver. 
His  favourite  atmosphere  was  quite  enough  to  account 
for  a  return  of  the  old  mood,  but  Albinia  had  no  time  to 
perceive  that  it  might  have  been  prevented,  or  at  least 
mitigated. 

Few  even  of  the  wisest  women  are  fit  for  authority 
and  liberty  so  little  restrained,  and  happily  it  seldom 
foils  to  the  lot  of  such  as  have  not  previously  been  chast- 
ened by  a  life-long  affliction.  But  Mrs.  Kendal,  at  twenty- 
four,  with  the  consequence  conferred  by  marriage,  and  by 
her  superiority  of  manners  and  birth,  was  left  as  un- 
checked and  almost  as  irresponsible  as  if  she  had  been 
single  or  a  widow,  and  was  solely  guided  by  the  impulses 
of  her  own  character,  noble  and  highly  principled,  but 
like  most  zealous  dispositions,  without  balance  and  with- 
out repose. 

Ballast  had  been  given  at  first  by  bash  fulness,  disap- 
pointment, and  anxiety  ;  but  she  had  been  freed  from  her 
troubles  with  Gilbert,  had  gained  confidence  in  herself, 
and  had  taken  her  position  at  Bayford.  She  was  beloved, 
esteemed,  and  trusted  in  her  own  set,  and  though  else- 
where she  might  not  be  liked,  yet  she  was  deferred  to, 
could  not  easily  be  quarrelled  with,  so  that  she  met  with 
little  opposition,  and  did  not  care  for  such  as  she  did 
meet.  In  fact,  very  few  persons  had  so  much  of  their 
own  way  as  Mrs.  Kendal. 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  119 

She  was  generally  in  her  nursery  at  a  much  earlier 
hour  than  an  old-established  nurse  would  have  tolerated, 
but  the  little  Susan,  promoted  from  Fair  mead  school  and 
nursery,  was  trained  in  energetic  habits.  In  passing  the 
doors  of  the  young  ladies'  rooms,  Albinia  gave  a  call 
which  she  had  taught  them  not  to  resist,  for,  like  all 
strong  persons,  she  thought  '  early  to  rise '  the  only  way 
to  health,  wealth,  or  wisdom.  Much  work  had  been  de- 
spatched before  breakfast,  after  which,  on  two  days  in  the 
week,  Albinia  and  Lucy  went  to  church.  Sophy  never 
volunteered  to  accompany  them,  and  Albinia  was  the  less 
inclined  to  press  her,  because  her  attitudes  and  attention 
on  Sunday  were  far  from  satisfactory.  On  Tuesday  and 
Thursday  Albinia  had  a  class  at  school,  and  so,  likewise, 
had  Lucy,  who  kept  a  jealous  watch  over  every  stray 
necklace  and  curl,  and  had  begun  thoroughly  to  enjoy  the 
importance  and  bustle  of  charity.  She  was  a  useful 
assistant  in  the  penny  club  and  lending  library,  which 
occupied  Albinia  on  other  mornings  in  the  week,  until 
the  hour  when  she  came  in  for  the  girls'  studies.  After 
luncheon,  she  enjoyed  the  company  of  little  Maurice,  who 
indeed  pervaded  all  her  home  doings  and  thoughts,  for 
she  had  a  great  gift  of  doing  everything  at  once. 

A  sharp  constitutional  walk  was  taken  in  the  after- 
noon. She  thought  no  one  could  look  drooping  or  de- 
jected but  from  the  air  of  the  valley,  and  that  no  cure 
was  equal  to  rushing  straight  up  one  hill  and  on  to  the 
next,  always  walking  rapidly,  with  a  springy,  buoyant 
step,  and  surprised  at  any  one  who  lagged  behind.  Pa- 
rochial cares,  visits,  singing  classes,  lessons  to  Sunday- 
school  teachers,  &c,  filled  up  the  rest  of  the  day.  She 
had  an  endless  number  of  '  excellent  plans,'  on  which  she 
always  acted  instantly,  and  which  kept  her  in  a  state  of 
perpetual  haste.  Poor  Mrs.  Dusautoy  had  almost  learnt 
to  dread  her  flashing  into  the  room,  full  of  some  parish 
matter,  and  flashing  out  again  before  the  invalid  felt  as  if 
the  subject  had  been  fairly  entered  on,  or  her  sitting 
down  to  impress  some  project  with  overpowering  eager- 
ness that  generally  carried  away  the  vicar  into  grateful 
consent  and  admiring  approval,  while  his  wife  was  feeling 


120  THE   YOUXG   STEP-MOTHER. 

doubtful,  suspecting  her  hesitation  of  being  ungracious,  or 
blaming  herself  for  not  liking  the  little  she  could  do  to 
be  taken  out  of  her  hands. 

There  was  nothing  more  hateful  to  Albinia  than  dawd- 
ling. She  left  the  girls  choice  of  employments,  but  in- 
sisted on  their  being  veritably  occupied,  and  many  a 
time  did  she  encounter  a  killing  glance  from  Sophia  for 
attacking  her  listless,  moody  position  in  her  chair,  or  say- 
ing, in  clear,  alert  tones,  '  My  dear,  when  you  read,  read  ; 
when  you  work,  work.  When  you  fix  your  eye  in  that 
way,  you  are  doing  neither.' 

Lucy's  brisk,  active  disposition,  and  great  good- 
humour,  had  responded  to  this  treatment ;  she  had  been 
obliging,  instead  of  officious ;  repeated  checks  had  im- 
proved her  taste ;  her  love  of  petty  bustle  was  directed 
to  better  objects ;  and  though  nothing  could  make  her 
intellectual  or  deep,  she  was  a  really  pleasant  assistant 
and  companion ;  and  no  one,  except  grandmamma,  who 
thought  her  perfect  before,  could  fail  to  perceive  how 
much  more  lady-like  her  tones,  manners,  and  appearance 
had  become. 

The  results  with  Sophy  had  been  directly  the  reverse. 
At  first  she  had  followed  her  sister's  lead,  except  that  she 
was  always  sincere,  and  often  sulky  ;  but  the  more  Lucy 
had  yielded  to  Albinia's  moulding,  the  more  had  Sophy 
diverged  from  her  ;  as  if  out  of  the  very  spirit  of  contra- 
diction. Her  intervals  of  childish  nonsense  had  well  nigh 
disappeared  ;  her  indifference  to  lessons  was  greater  than 
ever,  though  she  devoured  every  book  that  came  in  her 
way  in  a  silent,  but  absorbed  manner,  a  good  deal  like 
her  father.  Tales  and  stories  were  not  often  within  her 
reach,  but  her  appetite  seemed  to  be  universal,  and  Al- 
binia saw  her  reading  old-fashioned  standard  poetry — 
such  as  she  had  never  herself  assailed — and  books  of  his- 
tory, travels,  or  metaphysics.  She  wondered  whether 
the  girl  derived  any  pleasure  from  them,  or  whether  they 
were  only  a  shield  for  doing  nothing  ;  but  no  inquiry  pro- 
duced an  answer,  and  if  Sophy  remembered  anything  of 
them,  it  was  not  with  the  memory  used  in  lesson-time. 
The  attachment  to  Louisa  Osborn  was  pertinacious  and 


THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  121 

unaccountable  in  a  person  who  could  have  so  little  in 
common  with  that  young  lady,  and  there  was  nothing 
comfortable  about  her  except  her  fondness  for  her  little 
brother,  and  that  really  seemed  to  be  against  her  will. 
Her  voice  was  less  hoarse  and  gruff  since  the  pond  had 
been  no  more,  and  she  had  acquired  an  expression,  so 
suffering,  so  concentrated,  so  thoughtful,  that,  together 
with  her  heavy  black  eyebrows,  large  face,  profuse  black 
hair,  and  unlustrous  eyes,  it  gave  her  almost  a  dwarfish 
air,  increased  by  her  awkward  deportment,  which  con- 
cealed that  she  was  in  reality  tall,  and  on  a  large  scale. 
She  looked  to  so  little  advantage  in  bright  delicate  col- 
ours, that  Albinia  was  often  incurring  her  displeasure, 
and  risking  that  of  Lucy,  by  the  deep  blues  and  sober 
browns  which  alone  looked  fit  to  be  seen  with  those  bee- 
tle brows  and  sallow  features.  Her  face  looked  many 
years  older  than  that  of  her  fair,  fresh,  rosy  step-mother ; 
nay,  her  father's  clear  olive  complexion  and  handsome 
countenance  had  hardly  so  aged  an  aspect ;  and  Gilbert, 
when  he  came  home  at  Midsummer  declared  that  Sophy 
had  grown  as  old  as  grandmamma. 

The  compliment  could  not  be  returned ;  Gilbert  was 
much  more  boy-like  in  a  good  sense.  He  had  brought 
home  an  excellent  character,  and  showed  it  in  every  look 
and  gesture.  His  father  was  pleased  to  have  him  again, 
took  the  trouble  to  talk  to  him,  and  received  such  sensi- 
ble answers,  that  the  habit  of  conversing  was  actually 
established,  and  the  dinners  were  enlivened,  instead  of 
oppressed,  by  his  presence.  Towards  his  sisters  he  had 
become  courteous,  he  was  fairly  amiable  to  Aunt  Maria, 
very  attentive  to  grandmamma,  overflowing  with  affec- 
tion to  Mrs.  Kendal,  and  as  to  little  Maurice,  he  almost 
adored  him,  and  awakened  a  reciprocity  which  was  the 
delight  of  his  heart. 

At  Midsummer  came  the  grand  penny-club  distribu- 
tion, the  triumph  for  which  Albinia  had  so  long  been  pre- 
paring. One  of  Mrs.  Dusautoy's  hints  as  to  Bayford 
tradesmen  had  been  overruled,  and  goods  had  been  or- 
dered from  a  house  in  London,  after  Albinia  and  Lucy 
had  made  an  incredible  agitation  over  their  patterns  of 
6 


122  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE. 

calico  and  flannel.  Mr.  Kendal  was  just  aware  that  there 
was  a  prodigious  commotion,  but  he  knew  that  all  ladies 
were  subject  to  linen-drapery  epidemics,  and  Albinia's 
took  a  more  endurable  form  than  a  pull  on  his  purse  for 
the  sweetest  silk  in  the  world,  and  above  all,  it  neither 
came  into  his  study  nor  even  into  his  house. 

It  was  a  grand  spectacle,  when  Mr.  Dusautoy  looked 
in  on  Mrs.  Kendal  and  her  staff,  armed  with  their  yard- 
wands. 

A  pile  of  calico  was  heaped  in  wild  masses  like  ava- 
lanches in  one  corner,  rapidly  diminishing  under  the 
measurements  of  Gilbert,  who  looked  as  if  he  took  thor- 
ough good-natured  delight  in  the  frolic.  Brown,  inodor- 
rous  materials  for  petticoats,  blouses,  and  trowsers,  were 
dealt  out  by  the  dexterous  hands  of  Genevieve  ;  a  moun- 
tain of  lilac  print  was  folded  off  by  Clarissa  Richardson ; 
Lucy  was  presiding  joyously  over  the  various  blue,  buff, 
brown,  and  pink  Sunday  frocks  ;  the  schoolmistress  help- 
ing with  the  other  goods,  the  customers — some  pleased 
with  novelty,  or  hoping  to  get  more  for  their  money, 
others  suspicious  of  the  gentry,  and  secretly  resentful  for 
favourite  dealers,  but,  except  the  desperate  grumblers, 
satisfied  with  the  quality  and  quantity  of  the  wares — and 
extremely  taken  with  the  sellers,  especially  with  Gilbert's 
wit,  and  with  Miss  Durant's  ready,  lively  persuasions, 
varied  to  each  one's  tastes,  and  extracting  a  smile  and 
'  thank  you,  Miss,'  from  the  surliest.  And  the  presiding 
figure,  with  the  light  on  her  sunny  hair,  and  good-natured, 
unfailing  interest  in  her  countenance,  was  at  her  central 
table,  calculating,  giving  advice,  considering  of  com- 
plaints, measuring,  folding — here,  there,  and  everywhere 
— always  bright,  lively,  forbearing,  however  complaining 
or  unreasonable  her  clients  might  be. 

Mr.  Dusautoy  went  home  to  tell  his  Fanny  that  Mrs, 
Kendal  was  worth  her  weight  in  gold  ;  and  the  workers 
toiled  till  luncheon,  when  Albinia  took  them  home  for 
food  and  wine,  to  restore  them  for  the  labours  of  the 
afternoon. 

'  What  have  you  been  about  all  the  morning,  Sophy  ? 
Yes,  I  see  your  translation — very  well — I  wish  you  would 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  123 

come  up  and  help  this  afternoon.  Miss  Richardson  is  look- 
ing so  pale  and  tired  that  I  want  to  relieve  her.' 

'  I  can't,'  said  Sophy. 

'  I  don't  order  you,  but  you  are  losing  a  great  deal  of 
fun.     Suppose  you  came  to  look  on,  at  least.' 

'  I  hate  poor  people.' 

'  I  hope  you  will  change  your  mind  some  day,  but 
you  must  do  something  this  afternoon.  You  had  better 
take  a  walk  with  Susan  and  baby  ;  I  told  her  to  go  by 
the  meadows  to  Horton.' 

'  I  don't  want  to  walk.' 

*  Have  you  anything  to  do  instead  1  No,  I  thought 
not ;  and  it  is  not  at  all  hot  to  signify. — It  will  do  you 
much  more  good.     Ye^,  you  must  go.' 

In  the  course  of  the  summer  an  old  Indian  friend  was 
staying  at  Fairmead  Park,  and  Colonel  Bury  wrote  to 
beg  for  a  week's  visit  from  the  whole  Kendal  family. 
Even  Sophy  vouchsafed  to  be  pleased,  and  Lucy  threw 
all  her  ardour  into  the  completion  of  a  blue  braided  cape, 
which  was  to  add  immensely  to  little  Maurice's  charms  ; 
she  declared  that  she  should  work  at  it  the  whole  of  the 
last  evening,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal  were  at  the 
dinner  that  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bowles  annually  inflicted 
on  themselves  and  their  neighbours,  a  dinner  which  it 
would  have  been  as  cruel  to  refuse  as  it  was  irksome  to 
accept. 

There  was  a  great  similarity  in  those  Bay  ford  parties, 
inasmuch  as  the  same  cook  dressed  them  all,  and  the  same 
waiters  waited  at  them,  and  the  same  guests  met  each 
other,  and  the  principal  variety  on  this  occasion  was,  that 
the  Osborns  did  not  come,  because  the  Admiral  was  in 
London. 

The  ladies  had  left  the  dining-room,  when  Albinia's 
ear  caught  a  sound  of  hurried  opening  of  doors,  and 
sound  of  steps,  and  saw  Mrs.  and  Miss  Bowles  look  as 
if  they  heard  something  unexpected.  She  paused,  and 
forgot  the  end  of  what  she  was  saying.  The  room  door 
was  pushed  a  little  way  open,  but  then  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate. Miss  Bowles  hastened  forward,  and  opening  it,  ad- 
mitted a  voice  that  made  Albinia  hurry  breathlessly  from 


124  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  push  so  that  the  door 
yielded,  and  she  saw  it  had  been  Mr.  Dusautoy  who  had 
been  holding  it  while  there  was  some  kind  of  consulta- 
tion round  Gilbert.  The  instant  he  saw  her,  he  ex- 
claimed, '  Come  to  the  baby,  Sophy  has  fallen  down  with 
him.' 

People  pressed  about  her,  trying  to  speak  cheeringly, 
but  she  understood  nothing  but  that  her  husband  and  Mr. 
Bowles  were  gone  on,  and  she  had  a  sense  that  there  had 
been  hardness  and  cruelty  in  hesitating  to  summon  her. 
Without  knowing  that  a  shawl  was  thrown  round  her,  or 
seeing  Mr.  Dusautoy's  offered  arm,  she  clutched  Gilbert's 
wrist  in  her  hand,  and  flew  down  the  street. 

The  gates  and  front  door  were  open,  and  there  was  a 
throng  of  people  in  the  hall.  Lucy  caught  hold  of  her 
with  a  sobbing,  '  Oh,  Mamma  ! '  but  she  only  framed  the 
words  with  her  lips — '  where  ? ' 

They  pointed  to  the  study.  The  door  was  shut,  but 
Albinia  broke  from  Lucy,  and  pushed  through  it,  in  too 
much  haste  to  dwell  on  the  sickening  doubt  what  it  might 
conceal. 

Two  figures  stood  under  the  window.  Mr.  Kendal, 
who  was  holding  the  little  inanimate  form  in  his  arms  for 
the  doctor  to  examine,  looking  up  as  she  entered,  cast  on 
her  a  look  of  mute,  pleading,  despairing  agony,  that  was 
as  the  bitterness  of  death.  She  sprang  forward  herself  to 
clasp  her  child,  and  her  husband  yielded  him  in  broken- 
hearted pity,  but  at  that  moment  the  little  limbs  moved, 
the  features  worked,  the  eyes  unclosed,  and  clinging 
tightly  to  her,  as  she  strained  him  to  her  bosom,  the 
little  fellow  proclaimed  himself  alive  by  lusty  roars,  more 
welcome  than  any  music.  Partly  stunned,  and  far  more 
terrified,  he  had  been  in  a  sort  of  swoon,  without  breath 
to  cry,  till  recalled  to  himself  by  feeling  his  mother's 
arms  around  him.  Every  attempt  of  Mr.  Bowles  to  as- 
certain whether  he  were  uninjured  produced  such  a  fresh 
panic  and  renewal  of  screams,  that  she  begged  that  he 
might  be  left  to  her.  Mr.  Kendal  took  the  doctor  away, 
and  gradually  the  terror  subsided,  though  the  long  con- 
vulsive sobs  still  quivered  up  through  the  little  frame ; 


THE   YOTTXG   STEP-MOTHEIi.  125 

and  as  the  twilight  darkened  on  her,  she  had  time  to  re- 
alize the  past  alarm,  and  rejoice  in  trembling  over  the 
treasure  still  her  own. 

The  opening  of  the  door  and  the  gleaming  of  a  light 
had  nearly  brought  on  a  fresh  access  of  crying,  but  it  was 
his  father  who  entered,  and  Maurice  knew  the  low  deep 
sweetness  of  his  voice,  and  was  hushed.  '  I  believe  there 
is  no  harm  done,'  Albinia  said ;  and  the  smile  that  she 
fain  would  have  made  reassuring  gave  way  as  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  on  feeling  the  trembling  of  the  strong 
arm  that  was  put  round  her,  when  Mr.  Kendal  bent  to 
look  into  the  child's  eyes. 

*  I  thought  my. blight  had  fallen  on  you,'  was  all  he 
said. 

'  Oh  !  the  thankfulness — '  she  said  ;  but  she  could  not 
go  on,  she  must  stifle  all  that  swelled  within  her,  for  the 
babe  felt  each  throb  of  her  beating  heart ;  and  she  could 
barely  keep  from  bursting  into  tears  as  his  father  kissed 
him ;  then,  as  he  marked  the  still  sobbing  breath,  said, 
'  Bowles  must  see  him  again.' 

'  I  don't  know  how  to  make  him  cry  again  !  I  sup- 
pose he  must  be  looked  at,  but  indeed  I  think  him  safe. — 
See,  this  little  bruise  on  his  forehead  is  the  only  mark  1 
can  find.     What  was  it  ?     How  did  it  happen  ? ' 

*  Sophia  thought  proper  to  take  him  herself  from  the 
nursery  to  show  him  to  Mrs.  Osborn.  In  crossing  the 
street,  she  was  frightened  by  a  party  of  men  coming  out 
of  a  public-house  in  Tibbs's  Alley,  and  in  avoiding  them, 
slipped  down  and  struck  the  child's  head  against  a  gate- 
post. He  was  perfectly  insensible  when  1  took  him — I 
thought  him  gone.  Albinia,  you  must  let  Bowles  see 
him  again ! ' 

*  Is  any  one  there  1 '  she  said. 

1  Every  one,  I  think,'  he  replied,  looking  oppressed — 
1  Maria,  and  Mrs.  Osborn,  and  Dusautoy — but  I  will  call 
Bowles.' 

Apparently  the  little  boy  had  escaped  entirely  unhurt, 
but  the  surgeon  still  spoke  of  the  morrow,  and  he  was  so 
startled  and  restless,  that  Albinia  feared  to  move,  and  felt 
the  dark  study  a  refuge  from  the  voices  and  sounds  that 


126  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK. 

she  feared  to  encounter,  lest  they  should  again  occasion 
the  dreadful  screaming.  '  Oh,  if  they  would  only  go 
home  ! '  she  said. 

1 1  will  send  them,'  said  Mr.  Kendal ;  and  presently 
she  heard  sounds  of  leave-taking,  and  he  came  back,  as  if 
he  had  been  dispersing  a  riot,  announcing  that  the  house 
■was  clear. 

Gilbert  and  Lucy  were  watching  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  the  one  pale,  and  casting  anxious,  imploring  looks 
at  her  ;  the  other  with  eyes  red  and  swollen  with  crying, 
neither  venturing  near  till  she  spoke  to  them,  when  they 
advanced  noiselessly  to  look  at  their  little  brother,  and  it 
was  not  till  they  had  caught  his  eye  and  made  him  smile, 
that  Lucy  bethought  herself  of  saying  she  had  known 
nothing  of  his  adventure,  and  Albinia,  thus  recalled  to  the 
thought  of  the  culprit,  asked  where  Sophy  was. 

'  In  her  own  room,'  said  Mr.  Kendal.  '  I  could  not 
bear  the  sight  of  her  obduracy.  Even  her  aunt  was 
shocked  at  her  want  of  feeling.' 

Low  as  he  spoke,  the  sternness  of  his  voice  frightened 
the  baby,  and  she  was  obliged  to  run  away  to  the  nur- 
sery, where  she  listened  to  the  contrition  of  the  little 
nursemaid,  who  had  never  suspected  Miss  Sophy's  inten- 
tion of  taking  him  out  of  the  house.  '  And  indeed,  ma'am,' 
she  said,  '  there  is  not  one  of  us  servants  who  dares  cross 
Miss  Sophy.' 

It  was  long  before  Albinia  ventured  to  lay  him  in  his 
cot,  and  longer  still  before  she  could  feel  any  security 
that  if  she  ceased  her  low,  monotonous  lullaby,  the  little 
fellow  would  not  wake  again  in  terror  ;  but  the  thankful- 
ness and  prayer,  that,  as  she  grew  more  calm,  gained 
fuller  possession  of  her  heart,  made  her  recur  the  more 
to  pity  and  forgiveness  for  the  poor  girl  who  had  caused 
the  alarm.  Yet  there  was  strong  indignation  likewise, 
and  she  could  not  easily  resolve  on  meeting  the  hard  de- 
fiance and  sullen  indifference  which  would  wound  her 
more  than  ever.  She  was  much  inclined  to  leave  Sophy 
to  herself  till  morning,  but  suspecting  that  this  would  be 
vindictive,  she  unclasped  the  arm  that  Lucy  had  wound 
round  her  waist,  whispered  to  her  to  go  on  singing,  and 


THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  127 

moved  to  Sophy's  door.  It  was  fastened,  but  before  she 
could  call,  it  was  thrown  violently  back,  and  Sophy  stood 
straight  up  before  her,  striving  for  her  usual  rigidity,  but 
shaking  from  head  to  foot ;  and  though  there  were  no 
signs  of  tears,  she  looked  with  wistful  terror  at  her  step- 
mother's face,  and  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  wished  to 
speak. 

'  Baby  is  gone  quietly  to  sleep,'  began  Albinia  in  a 
low  voice,  beginning  in  displeasure ;  but  as  she  spoke, 
the  harshness  of  Sophy's  face  gave  way,  she  sank  down 
on  the  floor,  and  fell  into  the  most  overpowering  fit  of 
weeping  that  Albinia  had  ever  witnessed.  Kneeling  be- 
side her,  she  would  have  drawn  the  girl  close  to  her,  but 
a  sharp  cry  of  pain  startled  her,  and  she  found  the  right 
arm,  from  elbow  to  wrist,  all  one  purple  bruise,  the  skin 
grazed,  and  the  blood  starting. 

'  My  poor  child  !  how  you  have  hurt  yourself! ' 

Sophy  turned  away  pettishly. 

'  Let  me  look  !  I  am  sure  it  must  be  very  bad. 
Have  you  done  anything  to  it  ? ' 

'  No,  never  mind.     Go  back  to  baby.' 

1  Baby  does  not  want  me.  You  shall  come  and  see 
how  comfortably  he  is  asleep,  if  you  will  leave  off  crying, 
and  let  me  see  that  poor  arm.  Did  you  hurt  it  in  the 
fall  ? ' 

i  The  corner  of  the  wall,'  said  Sophy.  6  Oh  !  did  it  not 
hurt  him  ? '  but  then,  just  as  it  seemed  that  she  was  sink- 
ing on  that  kind  breast  in  exhaustion,  she  collected  her- 
self, and  pushing  Albinia  off,  exclaimed,  '  I  did  it,  I  took 
him  out,  I  fell  down  with  him,  I  hurt  his  head,  I've  killed 
him,  or  made  him  an  idiot  for  life.     I  did.' 

'  Who  said  so  ? '  cried  Albinia,  transfixed. 

'  Aunt  Maria  said  so.  She  said  I  did  not  feel.  Oh, 
if  I  could  only  die  before  he  grows  up  to  let  one  see  it. 
Why  won't  you  begin  to  hate  me  %  ' 

1  My  dear,'  said  Albinia,  consoled  on  hearing  the  au- 
thority, '  people  often  say  angry  things  when  they  are 
shocked.  Your  aunt  had  not  seen  Mr.  Bowles,  and  we 
all  think  he  was  not  in  the  least  hurt,  only  terribly  fright- 
ened. Dear,  dear  child,  I  am  more  distressed  for  you 
than  for  him  ! ' 


128  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

Sophy  could  hold  out  no  longer,  she  let  her  head  drop 
on  the  kind  shoulder,  and  seemed  to  collapse,  with  burn- 
ing brow,  throbbing  pulses,  and  sobs  as  deep  and  convul- 
sive as  had  been  those  of  her  little  brother.  Hastily 
calling  Lucy,  who  was  frightened,  subdued,  and  helpful, 
Albinia  undressed  the  poor  child,  put  her  to  bed,  and 
applied  lily  leaves  and  spirits  to  her  arm.  The  smart 
seemed  to  refresh  her,  but  there  had  been  a  violent  strain 
as  well  as  bruise,  and  each  touch  visibly  gave  severe 
pain,  though  she  never  complained.  Lucy  insisted  on 
hearing  exactly  how  the  accident  had  happened,  and 
pressed  her  with  questions,  which  Albinia  would  have 
shunned  in  her  present  condition,  and  it  was  thus  elicited 
that  she  had  taken  Maurice  across  the  street  to  show  him 
to  Mrs.  Osborn.  He  had  resented  the  strange  place,  and 
strange  people,  and  had  cried  so  much  that  she  was 
obliged  to  run  home  with  him  at  once.  A  knot  of  bawl- 
ing men  came  reeling  out  of  one  of  the  many  beershops 
in  Tibbs's  Alley,  and  in  her  haste  to  avoid  them,  she 
tripped,  close  to  the  gate-post  of  Willow  Lawn,  and  fell, 
with  only  time  to  interpose  her  arm  between  Maurice's 
head  and  the  sharp  corner.  She  was  lifted  up  at  once,  in 
the  horror  of  seeing  him  neither  cry  nor  move,  for,  in 
fact,  he  had  been  almost  stifled  under  her  weight,  and  all 
had  since  been  to  her  a  frightful  phantom  dream.  Al- 
binia was  infinitely  relieved  by  this  history,  showing  that 
Maurice  could  hardly  have  received  any  real  injury  ;  and 
in  her  declarations  that  Sophy's  presence  of  mind  had 
saved  him,  was  forgetting  to  whom  the  accident  was 
owing.  Lucy  wanted  to  know  why  her  sister  could  have 
taken  him  out  of  the  house  at  all,  but  Albinia  could  not 
bear  to  have  this  pressed  at  such  a  moment,  and  sent  the 
inquirer  down  to  order  some  tea,  which  she  shared  with 
Sophy,  and  then  was  forced  to  bid  her  good-night,  without 
drawing  out  any  further  confessions.  But  when  the  girl 
raised  herself  to  receive  her  kiss,  it  was  the  first  real  em- 
brace that  had  passed  between  them. 

In  the  very  early  morning,  Albinia  was  in  the  nur- 
sery, and  found  her  little  boy  bright  and  healthy.  As 
she  left  him  in  glad  hope  and  gratitude,  Sophy's  door  was 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  129 

pushed  ajar,  and  her  wan  face  peeped  out.  '  My  dear 
child,  you  have  not  been  asleep  all  night ! '  exclaimed 
Albinia,  after  having  satisfied  her  about  the  baby. 

<  No.' 

1  Does  your  arm  hurt  you  ?  ' 

4  Yes.' 

1  Does  your  head  ache  1 ' 

'  Rather.' 

But  they  were  not  the  old  sulky  answers,  and  she 
seemed  glad  to  have  her  arm  freely  bathed,  her  brow 
cooled,  her  tossed  bed  composed,  and  her  window 
opened,  so  that  she  might  make  a  fresh  attempt  at  clos- 
ing her  weary  eyes. 

She  was  evidently  far  too  much  shaken  to  be  fit  for 
the  intended  expedition,  even  if  her  father  had  not  decreed 
that  she  should  be  deprived  of  it.  Albinia  had  never  seen 
him  so  much  incensed,  for  nothing  makes  a  man  so  angry 
as  to  have  been  alarmed  ;  and  he  was  doubly  annoyed 
when  he  found  that  she  thought  Sophy  too  unwell  to  be 
left,  as  he  intended,  to  solitary  confinement. 

He  would  gladly  have  given  up  the  visit,  for  his  re- 
pugnance to  society  was  in  full  force  on  the  eve  of  a 
party  ;  but  Albinia,  by  representing  that  it  would  be 
wrong  to  disappoint  Colonel  Bury,  and  very  hard  on  the 
unoffending  Gilbert  and  Lucy,  succeeded  in  prevailing  on 
him  to  accept  his  melancholy  destiny,  and  to  allow  her 
to  remain  at  home  with  Sophy  and  the  baby — one  of  the 
greatest  sacrifices  he  or  she  had  yet  made.  He  was  ex- 
ceedingly vexed,  and  therefore  the  less  disposed  to  be 
lenient.  The  more  Albinia  told  him  of  Sophy's  unhappi- 
ness,  the  more  he  hoped  it  would  do  her  good,  and  he 
could  not  be  induced  to  see  her,  nor  to  send  her  any  mes- 
sage of  forgiveness  ;  for  in  truth  it  was  less  the  baby's 
accident  that  he  resented,  than  the  eighteen  months  of 
f  surly  resistance  to  the  baby's  mother ;  and  at  present  he 
was  more  unrelenting  than  the  generous,  forgiving  spirit 
of  his  wife  could  understand,  though  she  tried  to  believe 
it  manly  severity  and  firmness. 

'  It  would  be  time  to  pardon,'  he  said,  '  when  pardon 
was  asked.' 

G* 


130  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

And  Albinia  could  not  say  that  it  had  been  asked,  ex- 
cept by  misery. 

'  She  has  the  best  advocate  in  you,'  said  Mr.  Kendal, 
affectionately,  '  and  if  there  be  any  feeling  in  her,  such 
forbearance  cannot  fail  to  bring  it  out.  I  am  more 
grieved  than  I  can  tell  you  at  your  present  disappoint- 
ment, but  it  shall  not  happen  again.  If  you  can  bring 
her  to  a  better  mind,  I  shall  be  the  more  satisfied  in  send- 
ing her  from  home.' 

'  Edmund  !  you  do  not  think  of  it ! ' 

'  My  mind  is  made  up.  Do  you  think  I  have  not 
watched  your  patient  care,  and  the  manner  in  which  it 
has  been  repaid  ?  You  have  sufficient  occupation  without 
being  the  slave  of  those  children's  misconduct.' 

'  Sophy  would  be  miserable.  Oh  !  you  must  not ! 
She  is  the  last  girl  in  the  world  fit  to  be  sent  to  school.' 

1 1  will  not  have  you  made  miserable  at  home.  This 
has  been  a  long  trial,  and  nothing  has  softened  her.' 

*  Suppose  this  was  the  very  thing.' 

1  If  it  were,  what  is  past  should  not  go  unrequited,  and 
the  change  will  teach  her  what  she  has  rejected.  Hush, 
dearest ;  it  is  not  that  I  do  not  think  that  you  have  done 
all  for  her  that  tenderness  or  good  sense  could  devise,  but 
your  time  is  too  much  occupied,  and  I  cannot  see  you 
overtasked  by  this  poor  child's  headstrong  temper.  It  is 
decided,  Albinia  ;  say  no  more.' 

'  I  have  failed,'  thought  Albinia,  as  he  left  the  room. 
'  He  decides  that  I  have  failed  in  bringing  up  his  children. 
What  have  I  done  ?  Have  I  been  mistaken  1  have  I  been 
careless  ?  have  I  not  prayed  enough  ?  Oh !  my  poor, 
poor  Sophy  !  What  will  she  do  among  strange  girls  % 
Oh  !  how  wretched,  how  harsh,  how  misunderstood  she 
will  be  !  She  will  grow  worse  and  worse,  and  just  when 
I  do  think  I  might  have  begun  to  get  at  her  !  And  it  is 
for  my  sake  !  For  me  that  her  father  is  set  against  her, 
and  is  driving  her  out  from  her  home  !  Oh  !  what  shall 
I  do  ?  Winifred  will  promote  it,  because  they  all  think 
I  am  doing  too  much  !  I  wonder  what  put  that  in  Ed- 
mund's head  ?  But  when  he  speaks  in  that  way,  I  have 
no  hope ! ' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  131 

Mr.  Kendal's  anger  took  a  direction  with  which  she 
better  sympathized  when  he  walked  down  Tibbs's  Alley, 
and  counted  the  nine  beershops  which  had  never  dawned 
on  his  imagination,  and  which  so  greatly  shocked  it,  that 
he  went  straight  to  the  astonished  Pettilove,  and  gave  him 
a  severe  reprimand  for  allowing  the  houses  to  be  made 
dens  of  iniquity  and  disorder. 

He  was  at  home  in  time  to  meet  the  doctor,  and  hear 
that  Maurice  had  suffered  not  the  smallest  damage ;  and 
then  to  make  another  ineffectual  attempt  to  persuade  Al- 
binia  to  consign  Sophy  to  imprisonment  with  Aunt  Maria ; 
after  which  he  drove  off  very  much  against  his  will  with 
Lucy  and  Gilbert,  both  declaring  that  they  did  not  care  a 
rush  to  go  to  Fairmead  under  the  present  circumstances. 

Albinia  had  a  sad,  sore  sense  of  failure,  and  almost  of 
guilt,  as  she  lingered  on  the  door-step  after  seeing  them 
set  off.  The  education  of  '  Edmund's  children  '  had  been 
a  cherished  vision,  and  it  had  resulted  so  differently  from 
her  expectations,  that  her  heart  sank.  With  Gilbert  there 
was  indeed  no  lack  of  love  and  confidence,  but  there  was 
a  sad  lurking  sense  of  his  want  of  force  of  character,  and 
she  had  avowedly  been  insufficient  to  preserve  him  from 
temptation ;  Lucy,  whom  externally  she  had  the  most 
altered,  was  not  of  a  nature  accordant  enough  with  her 
own  for  her  to  believe  the  effects  deep  or  permanent ; 
and  Sophia — poor  Sophia  !  Had  what  was  kindly  called 
forbearance  been  really  neglect  and  want  of  moral  cour- 
age 1  Would  a  gentler,  less  eager  person  have  won  in- 
stead of  repelling  confidence  ?  Had  her  multiplicity  of 
occupations  made  her  give  but  divided  attention  to  the 
more  important  home  duty.  Alas  !  alas  !  she  only  knew 
that  her  husband  thought  his  daughter  beyond  her  man- 
agement, and  for  that  very  reason  she  would  have  given 
worlds  to  retain  the  uncouth,  perverse  girl  under  her 
charge. 

She  stood  loitering,  for  the  sound  of  the  river  and  the 
shade  of  the  willows  were  pleasant  on  the  glowing  July 
day,  and  having  made  all  her  arrangements  for  going 
from  home,  she  had  no  pressing  employment ;  and  thu? 
she  waited,  musing  as  she  seldom  allowed  herself  time  to 


132  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

do,  and  thinking  over  each  phase  of  her  conduct  towards 
Sophy,  in  the  endeavour  to  detect  the  mistake ;  and 
throughout  came,  not  exactly  answering  her  query,  but 
throwing  a  light  upon  it,  her  brother's  warning,  that  if 
she  did  not  resign  herself  to  rest  quietly  when  rest  was 
forced  upon  her,  she  would  work  amiss  when  she  did 
work. 

Just  then  came  a  swinging  of  the  gate,  a  step  on  the 
walk,  and  Miss  Meadows  made  her  appearance.  A  mes- 
sage had  been  sent  up  in  the  morning,  but  grandmamma 
was  so  nervous,  that  Maria  had  trotted  down  in  the  heat 
to  satisfy  her. 

Albinia  was  surprised  to  find  that  womanhood  had 
thrown  all  their  instincts  on  the  baby's  side,  and  was 
gratified  by  the  first  truly  kind  fellow-feeling  they  had 
shown  her.  She  took  Maria  into  the  morning  room, 
where  she  had  left  Sophy  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  ran  up  to 
fetch  Maurice  from  the  nursery. 

When  she  came  down,  having  left  the  nurse  adorning 
him,  she  found  that  she  had  acted  cruelly.  Sophy  was 
standing  up  with  her  hardest  face  on,  listening  to  her 
aunt's  well-meant  rebukes  on  her  want  of  feeling,  and 
hopes  that  she  did  regret  the  having  endangered  her 
brother,  and  deprived  '  her  dear  mamma  of  the  party  of 
pleasure  at  Fairmead  ;  but  Aunt  Maria  knew  it  was  of  no 
use  to  talk  to  Sophy,  none —  ! ' 

1  Pray,  don't,  Aunt  Maria,'  said  Albinia,  gently  draw- 
ing Sophy  down  on  the  sofa  again  ;  '  this  poor  child  is  in 
no  state  to  be  scolded.' 

'  You  are  a  great  deal  too  good  to  her,  Mrs.  Kendal 
— after  such  wilfulness  as  last  night — carrying  the  dear 
baby  out  in  the  street — I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing — 
But  what  made  you  do  it,  Sophy,  won't  you  tell  me  that? 
No,  I  know  you  won't ;  no  one  ever  can  get  a  word  from 
her.  Ah  !  that  sulky  disposition — it  is  a  very  nasty 
temper — can't  you  break  through  it,  Sophy,  and  confess 
it  all  to  your  dear  mamma  ?  You  would  be  so  much 
better.  But  I  know  it  is  of  no  use,  poor  child  ;  it  is  just 
like  her  father.' 

Albinia  was  growing  very  angry,  and  it  was  well  that 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  133 

Maurice's  merry  crowings  were  heard  approaching.  Miss 
Meadows  was  delighted  to  see  him,  but  as  he  had  a  great 
aversion  to  her,  the  interview  was  not  prolonged,  since  he 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  keep  the  peace  by  being  held 
up  to  watch  a  buzzing  fly,  as  much  out  of  sight  of  her  as 
possible,  wrinkling  up  his  nose,  and  preparing  to  cry 
whenever  he  caught  sight  of  her  white  bonnet  and  pink 
roses. 

Miss  Meadows  bethought  her  that  grandmamma  was 
anxious,  so  she  only  waited  to  give  an  invitation  to  tea, 
but  merely  to  Mrs.  Kendal ;  she  would  say  nothing  about 
Sophy  since  disgrace — well-merited — if  they  could  only 
see  some  feeling. 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Albinia,  '  some  evening  perhaps  I 
may  come,  since  you  are  so  kind  ;  but  I  don't  think  I  can 
leave  this  poor  twisted  arm  to  itself.' 

Miss  Meadows  evaporated  in  hopes  that  Sophy  would 
be  sensible  of — and  assurances  that  Mrs.  Kendal  was  a 

great  deal  too with  finally  ;  '  Good-bye,  Sophy,  I  wish 

I  could  have  told  grandmamma  that  you  had  shown 
some  feeling.' 

'  I  believe,'  said  Albinia,  '  that  you  would  only  be  too 
glad  if  you  knew  how.' 

Sophy  gasped. 

Albinia  could  not  help  feeling  indignant  at  the  mis- 
judged persecution  ;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  render  the 
poor  child  more  entirely  her  own,  since  all  the  world  be- 
sides had  turned  against  her.  '  Kiss  her,  Maurice,'  she 
said,  holding  the  little  fellow  towards  her.  That  scratched 
arm  of  hers  has  spared  your  small  brains  from  more  than 
you  guess.' 

Sophy's  first  impulse  was  to  hide  her  face ;  but  he 
thought  it  was  bo-peep,  caught  hold  of  her  fingers,  and 
laughed  ;  then  came  to  a  sudden  surprised  stop,  and 
looked  up  to  his  mother,  when  the  countenance  behind 
the  screen  proved  sad  instead  of  laughing. 

1  Ah !  baby,  you  had  better  have  done  with  me,' 
Sophy  said,  bitterly  ;  '  you  are  the  only  one  that  does 
not  hate  me  yet,  and  you  don't  know  what  I  have  done 
to  you.' 


134  THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

'  I  know  some  one  else  that  cares  for  you,  my  poor 
Sophy,'  said  Albinia,  '  and  who  would  do  anything  to 
make  you  feel  it  without  distressing  you.  If  you  knew 
how  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do  for  you  ! ' 

'  It  is  no  use,'  said  Sophy,  moodily  ;  '  I  was  born  to 
be  a  misery  to  myself  and  every  one  else.' 

1  What  has  put  such  a  fancy  in  your  head,  my  dear  % ' 
said  Albina,  nearly  smiling. 

'  Grandmamma's  Betty  said  so ;  she  used  to  call  me 
Peter  Grievous,  and  I  know  it  is  so.  It  is  of  no  good  to 
bother  yourself  about  me.  It  can't  be  helped,  and  there's 
an  end  of  it.' 

'  There  is  not  an  end  of  it,  indeed ! '  cried  Albinia. 
'  Why,  Sophy,  do  you  suppose  I  could  bear  to  leave  you 
so?' 

'  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  not.' 

1  Why  not  ? '  continued  Albinia,  in  her  bright,  tender 
voice.  '  Why,  because  I  must  love  you  with  all  my 
heart.  You  are  your  own  dear  papa's  child,  and  this  lit- 
tle man's  sister.  Yes,  and  you  are  yourself,  my  poor, 
sad,  lonely  child,  who  does  not  know  how  to  bring  out 
the  thoughts  that  prey  on  her,  and  who  thinks  it  very 
hard  to  have  a  stranger  instead  of  her  own  mother.  I 
know  I  should  have  felt  so.' 

'  But  I  have  behaved  so  ill  to  you,'  cried  Sophy,  as  if 
bent  on  repelling  the  proffered  affection.  '  I  would  not 
like  you,  and  I  did  not  like  you.  Never !  and  I  have 
gone  against  you  every  way  I  could.' 

I  And  now  I  love  you  because  you  are  sorry  for  it.' 

*  I'm  not — '  Sophy  had  begun,  but  the  words  turned 
into  'Am  1 1 ' 

'  I  think  you  are,'  and  with*  the  sweetest  of  tearful 
smiles,  she  put  an  arm  round  the  no  longer  resisting 
Sophy,  and  laying  her  cheek  against  the  little  brother's, 
she  kissed  first  one  and  then  the  other. 

I I  can't  think  why  you  are  so,'  said  Sophy,  still 
struggling  against  the  undeserved  love,  though  far  more 
feebly.     '  I  shall  never  deserve  it.' 

•  See  if  you  don't,  when  Ave  pull  together  instead  of 
contrary  ways.' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  135 

I  But,'  cried  Sophy,  with  a  sudden  start  from  her,  as 
if  remembering  a  mortal  offence, '  you  drained  the  pond  ! ' 

I I  own  I  earnestly  wished  it  to  be  drained  ;  but  had 
you  any  reason  for  regretting  it,  my  dear  % ' 

'  Ah !  you  did  not  know,'  said  Sophy.  '  He  and  I 
used  to  be  always  there.' 

<He— ?' 

'Why,  will  you  make  me  say  it?'  cried  Sophy. 
*  Edmund  !  I  mean  Edmund  !  We  always  called  it  his 
pond.  He  made  the  little  quay  for  his  boats — he  used  to 
catch  the  minnows  there.  I  could  go  and  stand  by  it,  and 
think  he  was  coming  out  to  play ;  and  now  you  have  had 
it  dried  up,  and  his  dear  little  minnows  are  all  dead ; '  and 
she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  that  made  Maurice  cry 
till  Albinia  hastily  carried  him  off  and  returned. 

'  My  dear,  I  am  sorry  it  seemed  so  unkind.  I  do  not 
think  we  could  have  let  the  pond  stay,  for  it  was  making 
the  house  unhealthy ;  but  if  we  had  talked  over  it  to- 
gether, it  need  not  have  appeared  so  very  cruel  and  spite- 
ful.' 

'  I  don't  believe  you  are  spiteful,'  said  Sophy,  '  though 
I  sometimes  think  so.' 

The  filial  compliment  was  highly  gratifying. 

'  And  now,  Sophy,'  she  said,  i  that  I  have  told  you 
why  we  were  obliged  to  have  the  pond  drained,  will  you 
tell  me  what  you  wanted  with  baby  at  Mrs.  Osborn's  1 ' 

4 1  will  tell,'  said  Sophy,  '  but  you  won't  like  it.' 

'  I  like  anything  better  than  concealment.' 

'  Mrs.  OsDorn  said  she  never  saw  him.  She  said  you 
kept  him  close,  and  that  nobody  was  good  enough  to 
touch  him ;  so  I  promised  I  would  bring  him  over,  and  I 
kept  my  word.  I  know  it  was  wrong — and — I  did  not 
think  you  would  ever  forgive  me.' 

'  But  how  could  you  do  it  ?  ' 

'  Mrs.  Osborn  and  all  used  to  be  so  kind  to  us  when 
there  was  nobody  else  I  won't  cast  them  off  because  we 
are  too  fine  and  grand  for  them.' 

'  I  never  thought  of  that.  I  only  was  afraid  of  your 
getting  into  silly  ways,  and  your  papa  did  not  wish  us  to 
be  intimate  there.     And  now  you  see  he  was  right,  for 


136  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

good  friends  would  not  have  led  you  to  such  disobedience 
— and  by  stealth,  too,  what  I  should  have  thought  you 
would  most  have  hated.' 

Albinia  had  been  far  from  intending  these  last  words 
to  have  been  taken  as  they  were.  Sophy  hid  her  face, 
and  cried  piteously  with  an  utter  self-abandonment  of 
grief,  that  Albinia  could  scarcely  understand  ;  but  at  last 
she  extracted  some  broken  words.  *  False  !  shabby  ! 
yes — Oh  !  I  have  been  false  !  Oh  !  Edmund  !  Edmund  ! 
Edmund  !  the  only  thing  I  thought  I  still  was  !  I  thought 
I  was  true  !  Oh,  by  stealth  !  Why  couldn't  I  die  when 
I  tried,  when  Edmund  did  1 ' 

1  And  has  life  been  a  blank  ever  since  1 ' 

1  Off  and  on,'  said  Sophy.  '  Well,  why  not  1  I  am 
sure  papa  is  melancholy  enough.  I  don't  like  people 
that  are  always  making  fun,  I  can't  see  any  sense  in  it.' 

'  Some  sorts  of  merriment  are  sad,  and  hollow,  and 
wrong,  indeed,'  said  Albinia,  i  but  not  all,  I  hope.  You 
know  there  is  so  much  love  and  mercy  all  round  us,  that 
it  is  unthankful  not  to  have  a  cheerful  spirit.  I  wish  I 
could  give  you  one,  Sophy.' 

Sophy  shook  her  head.  '  I  can't  understand  about 
mercy  and  love,  when  Edmund  was  all  I  cared  for.' 

4  But,  Sophy,  if  life  is  so  sad  and  hard  to  you,  don't  you 
see  the  mercy  that  took  Edmund  away  to  perfect  joy  1 
Remember,  not  cutting  you  off  from  him,  but  keeping 
him  safe  for  you.' 

1  No,  no,'  cried  Sophy,  '  I  have  never  been  good  since 
he  went.    I  have  got  worse  and  worse,  but  I  did  think  I  was 

true  still,  that  that  one  thing  was  left  me— but  now ' 

The  sense  of  having  acted  a  deception  seemed  to  produce 
grief  under  which  the  stubborn  pride  was  melting  away, 
and  it  was  most  affecting  to  see  the  child  weeping  over 
the  lost  jewel  of  truth,  which  she  seemed  to  feel  the  last 
link  with  the  remarkable  boy  whose  impress  had  been 
left  so  strongly  on  all  connected  with  him. 

'  My  dear,  the  truth  is  in  you  still,  or  you  could  not 
grieve  thus  over  your  failure,'  said  Albinia,  '  I  know 
you  erred,  because  it  did  not  occur  to  you  that  it  was  not 
acting  openly  by  me ;    but  oh !  Sophy,  there  is  some- 


THE    YOUXG    STEP-MOTHER.  137 

thing  that  would  bring  you  nearer  to  Edmund  than  hard 
truth  in  your  own  strength.' 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean/  said  Sophy. 

4  Did  you  ever  think  what  Edmund  is  about  now  1 ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Sophy. 

1 1  only  know  that  the  one  thing  which  is  carried  with 
us  to  the  other  world  is  love,  Sophy,  and  love  that  be- 
comes greater  than  we  can  yet  imagine.  If  you  would 
think  of  Him  wdio  redeemed  and  saved  your  dear  Edmund, 
and  who  is  his  happiness,  his  exceeding  great  reward, 
your  heart  would  warm  ;  and,  oh  !  what  hope  and  peace 
would  come  ! ' 

1  Edmund  was  good,'  said  Sophy,  in  a  tone  as  if  to 
mark  the  hopeless  gulf  between. 

'  And  you  are  sorry.  All  human  goodness  begins 
from  sorrow.  It  had  even  to  be  promised  first  for  baby 
at  his  christening,  you  know.  Oh,  Sophy,  God's  blessing 
can  make  all  these  tears  come  to  joy.'  , 

A.lbinia's  own  tears  were  flowing  so  fast,  that  she  broke 
off  to  hide  them  in  her  own  room,  her  heart  panting  with 
hope,  and  yet  with  grief  and  pity  for  the  piteous  disclo- 
sure of  so  dreary  a  girlhood.  After  all,  childhood,  if  not 
the  happiest,  is  the  saddest  period  of  life — pains,  griefs, 
petty  tyrannies,  neglects,  and  terrors  have  not  the  allevia- 
tion of  the  experience  that '  this  also  shall  pass  away  ; ' 
time  moves  with  a  tardier  pace,  and  in  the  narrower  sphere 
of  interests,  there  is  less  to  distract  the  attention  from  the 
load  of  grievances.  Hereditary  low  spirits,  a  precocious 
mind,  a  reserved  temper,  a  motherless  home,  the  loss  of 
her  only  congenial  companion,  and  the  long  enduring 
effect  of  her  illness  upon  her  health,  had  all  conspired  to 
weigh  down  the  poor  girl,  and  bring  on  an  almost  morbid 
state  of  gloomy  discontent.  Her  father's  second  mar- 
riage, by  enlivening  the  house,  had  rendered  her  peculiar- 
ities even  more  painful  to  herself  and  others,  and  the  cul- 
tivation of  mind  that  was  forced  upon  her,  made  her  more 
averse  to  the  trifling  and  playfulness,  which,  while  she 
was  younger,  had  sometimes  brightened  and  softened  her. 
And  this  was  the  girl  whom  her  father  had  resolved  upon 
sending  to  the  selfish,  inconsiderate,  frivolous  world  of 


138  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

school-girls,  just  when  the  first  opening  had  been  made, 
the  first  real  insight  gained  into  her  feelings,  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  having  touched  her  heart !  Albinia  felt  baf- 
fled, disappointed,  almost  despairing.  His  stern  decree, 
once  made,  was,  she  knew,  well-nigh  unalterable ;  and 
though  resolved  to  use  her  utmost  influence,  she  doubted 
its  power  after  having  seen  that  look  of  decision.  Nay, 
she  tried  to  think  he  might  be  right.  There  might  be 
those  who  would  manage  Sophy  better.  Eighteen 
months  had  been  a  fair  trial,  and  she  had  failed.  She 
prayed  earnestly  for  whatever  might  be  best  for  the 
child ;  and  for  herself,  that  she  might  take  it  patiently 
and  submissively. 

Sophy  felt  the  heat  of  the  day  a  good  deal,  but  tow- 
ards the  evening  she  revived,  and  seemed  so  much 
cheered  and  refreshed  by  her  tea,  that,  as  the  sound  of 
the  church-bell  came  sweetly  down  in  the  soft  air,  Albinia 
said,  '  Sophy,  I  am  going  to  take  advantage  of  my  holiday 
and  go  to  the  evening  service.  I  suppose  you  had  rather 
not  come  1 ' 

1 1  think  I  will,'  returned  Sophy,  somewhat  glumly ; 
but  Albinia  hailed  the  answer  joyfully,  as  the  first  shame- 
faced effort  of  a  reserved  character  wishing  to  make  a 
new  beginning,  and  she  took  care  that  no  remark,  not 
even  a  look,  should  rouse  the  sullen  sensitiveness  that 
could  so  easily  be  driven  back  forever. 

Slowly  they  crept  up  the  steps  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  hill,  watching  how,  beyond  the  long  shadow  it  cast 
over  the  town  and  the  meadows,  the  trees  revelled  in  the 
sunset  light,  and  windows  glittered  like  great  diamonds, 
where  in  the  ordinary  daylight  the  distance  was  too  great 
for  distinct  vision. 

The  church  was  cool  and  quiet,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  Sophy's  countenance  and  reverent  attitude  that 
seemed  as  if  she  were  consecrating  a  newly-formed  reso- 
lution ;  her  eye  was  often  raised,  as  though  in  spite  of 
herself,  to  the  name  of  the  brother  whose  short  life 
seemed  inseparably  interwoven  with  all  the  higher  aspira- 
tions of  his  home. 

In  the  midst  of  the  Thanksgiving,  a  sudden  movement 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  139 

attracted  Albinia,  and  she  saw  Sophy  resting  her  head, 
and  looking  excessively  pale.  She  put  her  arm  round 
,hei*,  and  would  have  led  her  out,  but  could  not  persuade 
her  to  move,  and  by  the  time  the  Blessing  was  given,  the 
power  was  gone,  and  she  had  almost  fainted  away,  when 
a  tall  strong  form  stooped  over  her,  and  Mr.  Dusautoy 
gathered  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  bore  her  off  as  if  she 
had  been  a  baby,  to  the  open  window  of  his  own  drawing- 
room. 

'  Put  me  down  !  The  floor,  please ! '  said  Sophy, 
feebly,  for  all  her  remaining  faculties  were  absorbed  in 
dislike  to  the  mode  of  conveyance. 

'  Yes,  flat  on  the  floor,'  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  rising 
with  full  energy,  and  laying  a  cushion  under  Sophy's 
head,  reaching  a  scent-bottle,  and  sending  her  husband  for 
cold  water  and  sal-volatile  ;  with  readiness  that  astonished 
Albinia,  unused  to  illness,  and  especially  to  faintings,  and 
remorseful  at  having  taken  Sophy  out.  '  Was  it  the  pain 
of  her  arm  that  had  overcome  her  ? ' 

'  No,'  said  Sophy,  '  it  was  only  my  back.' 

'  Indeed !  you  never  told  me  you  had  hurt  your 
back  ; '  and  Albinia  began  describing  the  fall,  and  declar- 
ing there  must  be  a  sprain. 

'  Oh,  no,'  said  Sophy,  '  kneeling  always  does  it.' 

'  Does  what,  my  dear  ? '  said  Albinia,  sitting  on  the 
floor  by  her,  and  looking  up  to  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  exceed- 
ingly frightened. 

1  Makes  me  feel  sick,'  said  Sophy ;  '  I  thought  it 
would  go  off,  as  it  always  does  ;  it  didn't ;  but  it  is  better 
now. 

'  No,  don't  get  up  yet,'  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  as  she 
was  trying  to  move ;  '  I  would  offer  you  the  sofa,  it 
would  be  more  hospitable,  but  I  think  the  floor  is  the 
most  comfortable  place.' 

'  Thank  you,  much,'  said  Sophy,  with  an  emphasis. 

'  Do  you  ever  lie  down  on  it  when  you  are  tired  ? ' 
asked  the  lady,  looking  anxiously  at  Sophy. 

'  I  always  wish  I  might.' 

Albinia  was  surprised  at  the  interrogations  that  fol- 
lowed ;  she  did  not  understand  what  Mrs.  Dusautoy  was 


140  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

aiming  at,  in  the  close  questioning,  which  to  her  amaze- 
ment did  not  seem  to  offend,  but  rather  to  be  gratifying 
by  the  curious  divination  of  all  sensations.  It  made  Al- 
binia  feel  as  if  she  had  been  carrying  on  a  deliberate  sys- 
tem of  torture,  when  she  heard  of  a  pain  in  the  back, 
hardly  ever  ceasing,  aggravated  by  sitting  upright,  grow- 
ing severe  with  the  least  fatigue,  and  unless  favoured  by 
day,  becoming  so  bad  at  night  as  to  take  away  many 
hours  of  sleep. 

1  Oh  !  Sophy,  Sophy,'  she  cried,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
'  how  could  you  go  on  so  ?  Why  did  you  never  tell 
me?' 

'  I  did  not  like,'  began  Sophy  ;  '  I  was  used  to  it.' 

Oh,  that  barrier  !  Albinia  was  in  uncontrollable  dis- 
tress, that  the  girl  should  have  chosen  to  undergo  so 
much  suffering  rather  than  bestow  any  confidence.  Sophy 
stole  her  hand  into  hers,  and  said  in  her  odd,  short  way, 
'  Never  mind,  it  did  not  signify.' 

1  Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  '  those  things  are  just 
what  one  does  get  so  much  used  to,  that  it  seems  much 
easier  to  bear  them  than  to  speak  about  them.' 

'  But  to  let  oneself  be  so  driven  about,'  cried  Albinia. 
'  Oh  !  Sophy,  you  will  never  do  so  again  !  If  I  had  ever 
guessed — ' 

1  Please  hush !  Never  mind ! '  said  Sophy,  almost 
crossly,  and  getting  up  from  the  floor  quickly,  as  though 
resolved  to  be  well. 

'  I  have  never  minded  long  enough,'  sighed  Albinia. 
'  What  shall  I  do,  Mrs.  Dusautoy  ?  What  do  you  think 
it  is  ?  ' 

This  was  the  last  question  Mrs.  Dusautoy  wished  to 
be  asked  in  Sophy's  presence.  She  had  little  doubt  that 
it  was  spine  complaint  like  her  own,  but  she  had  not  in- 
tended to  let  her  perceive  the  impression,  till  after  having 
seen  Mrs.  Kendal  alone.  However,  Albinia's  impetuosity 
disconcerted  all  precautions,  and  Sophy's  two  great  black 
eyes  were  rounded  with  suppressed  terror,  as  if  expecting 
her  doom.  '  I  think  that  a  doctor  ought  to  answer  that 
question,'  Mrs.  Dusautoy  began. 

'  Yes,  yes,'  exclaimed  Albinia,  '  but  I  never  had  any 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  141 

faith  in  old  Mr.  Bowles.  I  had  rather  go  to  a  thorough 
good  man  at  once.' 

*  Yes,  certainly,  by  all  means.' 

1  And  then  to  whom  ?  I  will  write  to  my  Aunt  Mary. 
It  seems  exactly  like  you.  Do  you  think  it  is  the 
spine  1 ' 

'  I  am  afraid  so.  But,  my  dear,'  holding  out  her  hand 
caressingly  to  Sophy,  '  you  need  not  be  frightened — you 
need  not  look  at  me  as  an  example  of  what  you  will 
come  to — I  am  only  an  example  of  what  comes  of  never 
speaking  of  one's  ailments.' 

1  And  of  having  no  mother  to  find  them  out ! '  cried 
Albinia. 

'  Indeed,'  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  anxious  to  console  and 
encourage,  as  well  as  to  talk  the  young  step-mother  out  of 
her  self-reproach,  '  I  do  not  think  that  if  I  had  been  my 
good  aunt's  own  child,  she  would  have  been  more  likely 
to  find  out  that  anything  was  amiss.  It  was  the  fashion  to 
be  strong  and  healthy  in  that  house,  and  I  was  never 
really  ill — but  I  came  as  a  little  stunted,  dwining  cock- 
ney, and  so  I  was  considered  ever  after — never  quite 
comfortable,  often  forgetting  myself  in  enjoyment,  paying 
for  it  afterwards,  but  quite  used  to  it.  We  all  thought 
it  was  "  only  Fanny,"  and  part  of  my  London  breeding. 
Yes,  we  thought  so  in  good  faith,  even  after  the  largest 
half  of  my  life  had  been  spent  in  Yorkshire.' 

1  And  what  brought  it  to  a  crisis  ?  Did  they  go  on 
neglecting  you  1 '  exclaimed  Albinia. 

'  Why,  my  dear,'  said  the  little  lady,  a  glow  lighting 
on  her  cheek,  and  a  smile  awakening,  '  my  uncle  took  a 
new  curate,  whom  it  was  the  family  custom  to  call  "  the 
good-natured  giant,"  and  whose  approach  put  all  of  us 
young  ladies  in  a  state  of  great  excitement.  It  was  all  in 
character  with  his  good-nature,  you  know,  to  think  of 
dragging  the  poor  little  shrimp  up  the  hill  to  church,  and 
I  believe  he  did  not  know  how  she  would  get  on  without 
his  strong  arm ;  for  do  you  know,  when  he  had  the  curacy 
of  Lauris'ton  given  him,  he  chose  to  carry  the  starveling 
off  with  him,  instead  of  any  of  those  fine,  handsome,  pros- 
perous girls.     Dear  Mary  and  Bessie!  how  good  they 


142  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

were,  and  how  kind  and  proud  for  me !     I  never  could 
complain  of  not  having  sisters.' 

*  Well,  and  Mr.  Dusautoy  made  you  have  advice?' 

*  Not  he  !  Why,  we  all  believed  it  cockneyism,  you 
know,  and  besides,  I  was  so  happy  and  so  well,  that  when 
we  went  to  Scotland,  I  fairly  walked  myself  off  my  legs, 
and  ended  the  honeymoon  laid  up  in  a  little  inn  on  Loch 
Katrine,  where  John  used  regularly  to  knock  his  head 
whenever  he  came  into  the  room.  It  wTas  a  fortnight 
before  I  could  get  to  Edinburgh,  and  the  journey  made 
me  as  bad  as  ever.  So  the  doctors  wrere  called  in,  and 
poor  John  learnt  what  a  crooked  stick  he  had  chosen ; 
but  they  all  said  that  if  I  had  been  taken  in  hand  as  a 
child,  most  likely  I  should  have  been  a  sound  woman. 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  I  was  so  thoroughly  knocked  up 
that  I  could  not  bear  the  motion  of  a  carriage  ;  besides,  I 
suppose  the  doctors  wanted  a  little  amusement  out  of  me, 
for  they  would  not  hear  of  my  going  home.  So  poor 
John  had  to  go  to  Lauriston  by  himself,  and  those  were 
the  longest,  dreariest  six  months  1  ever  spent  in  my  life, 
though  Bessie  was  so  good  as  to  come  and  take  care  of 
me.  But  at  last,  when  I  had  nearly  made  up  my  mind 
to  defy  the  whole  doctorhood,  they  gave  leave,  and  be- 
tween  water  and  steam,  John  brought  me  to  Lauriston, 
and  ever  since  that,  I  don't  see  that  a  backbone  would 
have  made  us  a  bit  happier.' 

Sophy  had  been  intently  reading  Mrs.  Dusautoy's  face 
all  through  the  narration,  from  under  her  thick  black  eye* 
lashes,  and  at  the  end  she  drew  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  seemed 
to  catch  the  smile  of  glad  gratitude  and  affection.  There 
was  a  precedent,  which  afforded  incredible  food  to  the  tu- 
multuous cravings  of  a  heart  that  had  been  sinking  in 
sullen  gloom  under  the  consciousness  of  an  unpleasing 
exterior.  The  possibility  of  a  '  good-natured  giant '  was 
for  more  present  to  her  mind  than  the  present  probability 
of  future  suffering  and  restraint. 

Ever  rapid  and  eager,  Albinia  could  think  of  nothing 
but  immediate  measures  for  Sophy's  good,  and  the  satis- 
faction of  her  own  conscience.  She  could  not  bear  even 
to  wait  for  Mr.  Kendal's  return,  but,  as  her  aunts  were 


THE    TOUXG    STEP-MOTHER.  143 

still  in  London,  she  resolved  on  carrying  Sophy  to  their 
house  on  the  following  day  for  the  best  advice.  It  was 
already  late,  and  she  knelt  at  the  table  to  dash  off  two 
notes  to  put  into  the  post-office  as  she  went  home.  One 
to  Mrs.  Annesley,  to  announce  her  coming  with  Sophy, 
baby,  and  Susan,  the  other  as  follows  : — 

July  10th,  9  p.  m. 

'  Dearest  Edmund, 

1 1  find  I  have  been  cruelly  neglectful.  I  have 
hunted  and  driven  that  poor  child  about  till  it  has 
brought  on  spine  complaint.  The  only  thing  I  can  do 
is  to  take  her  to  have  the  best  advice  without  loss  of 
time,  so  I  am  going  to-morrow  to  my  aunt's.  It  would 
take  too  long  to  write  and  ask  your  leave.  You  must 
forgive  this,  as  indeed  each  word  I  have  to  say  is,  for- 
give !  She  is  so  generous  and  kind  !  You  know  I  meant 
to  do  my  best,  but  they  were  right,  I  was  too  young. 
1  Forgive  yours, 

<  A.  K.' 

The  Dusautoys  were  somewhat  taken  by  surprise,  but 
they  knew  too  well  the  need  of  promptitude  to  dissuade 
her ;  and  Sophia  herself  sat  aghast  at  the  commotion  excited 
by  the  habitual  discomfort  of  which  she  had  thought  so 
little.  The  vicar,  when  he  found  Mrs.  Kendal  in  earnest, 
offered  to  go  with  them  and  protect  them  ;  but  Albinia 
was  a  veteran  in  independent  railway  travelling,  and  was 
rather  affronted  by  being  treated  as  a  helpless  female. 
Mrs.  Dusautoy,  better  aware  of  what  the  journey  might 
be  to  one  at  least  of  the  travellers,  gave  advice,  and  lent 
air  cushions,  and  Albinia  bade  her  good  night  with  an 
almost  sobbing  '  thank  you,'  and  an  entreaty  that  if  Mr. 
Kendal  came  home  before  them,  she  would  tell  him  all 
about  it. 

At  home,  she  instantly  sent  the  stupefied  Sophy  to 
bod,  astonished  the  little  nurse,  ordered  down  boxes  and 
bags,  and  spent  half  the  night  in  packing,  glad  to  be  stir- 
ring and  to  tire  herself  into  sleeping,  for  her  remorse  and 
her  anticipations  were  so  painful,  that,  but  for  fatigue,  her 
bed  would  have  been  no  resting-place. 


144  TELE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTELEK. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Winifred  Ferrars  was  surprised  by  Mr.  Kendal's 
walking  into  her  garden,  with  a  perturbed  countenance, 
begging  her  to  help  him  to  make  out  what  could  be  the 
meaning  of  a  note  which  he  had  just  received.  He  was 
afraid  that  there  was  much  amiss  with  the  baby,  and 
heartily  wished  that  he  had  not  been  persuaded  to  leave 
home ;  but  poor  Albinia  wrote  in  so  much  distress,  that 
he  could  not  understand  her  letter. 

More  accustomed  to  Albinia's  epistolary  habits, 
Winifred  exclaimed  at  the  first  glance,  '  What  can  you 
mean  ?  There  is  not  one  word  of  the  little  one !  It  is 
only  Sophy ! ' 

The  immediate  clearing  of  his  face  was  not  compli- 
mentary to  poor  Sophy,  as  he  said,  '  Can  you  be  quite 
sure  ?  I  had  begun  to  hope  that  Albinia  might  at  least 
have  the  comfort  of  seeing  this  little  fellow  healthy  ;  but 
let  me  see — she  says  nursed  and — and  danced — is  it  ?  this 
poor  child — ' 

1  No,  no  ;  it  is  hunted  and  driven  ;  that's  the  way  she 
always  will  make  her  It's ;  besides,  what  nonsense  the 
other  would  be.' 

'This  poor  child — '  repeated  Mr.  Kendal,  'Going  up 
to  London  for  advice.  She  would  hardly  do  that  with 
Sophia.' 

I  Who  ever  heard  of  a  baby  of  six  months  old  having 
a  spine-complaint  1 '  cried  Mrs.  Ferrars  almost  angrily. 

I I  have  lost  one  in  that  way,'  he  replied. 

A  dead  silence  ensued,  till  Winifred,  to  her  great- 
relief,  spied  the  feminine  pronoun,  but  could  not  fully  sat 
isfy  Mr.  Kendal  that  the  ups  and  downs  were  insufficient 
for  the  word  him;  and  each  scrawl  was  discussed  as 
though  it  had  been  a  cuniform  inscription,  until  he  had 
been  nearly  argued  into  believing  in  the  lesser  evil.  He 
then  was  persuaded  that  the  Meadowses  had  been  harass- 
ing and  frightening  Albinia  into  this  startling  measure. 
It  was  so  contrary  to  his  own  nature,  that  he  hardly  be- 
lieved that  it  had  actually  taken  place,  and  that  she  must 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  145 

be  in  London  by  this  time ;  but  at  any  rate,  he  must  join 
her  there,  and  know  the  worst.  He  would  take  the  whole 
party  to  an  hotel,  if  it  were  too  great  a  liberty  to  quarter 
themselves  upon  Mrs.  Annesley. 

Winifred  was,  as  much  surprised  as  if  the  chess-king 
had  taken  a  knight's  move  ;  but  she  encouraged  his  reso- 
lution, assured  him  of  a  welcome  at  what  the  cousinhood 
were  wont  to  call  the  Family  Office,  and  undertook  the 
charge  of  Gilbert  and  Lucy.  The  sorrowful,  almost  sup- 
plicating tone  of  his  wife's  letter  would  have  sufficed  to 
bring  him  to  her,  even  without  his  disquietude  for  his 
child,  whichever  of  them  it  might  be ;  and  though  Al- 
binia's  merry,  blue-eyed  boy  had  brought  a  renewed 
spring  of  hope  and  life,  his  crushed  spirits  trembled  at 
the  least  alarm. 

Thus,  though  the  cheerful  Winifred  had  convinced  his 
reason,  his  gloomy  anticipations  revived  before  he  reached 
London ;  and  with  the  stern  composure  of  one  accustomed 
to  bend  to  the  heaviest  blows,  he  knocked  at  Mrs.  Amies- 
ley's  door.  He  was  told  that  Mrs.  Kendal  was  out ;  but 
on  further  inquiry,  learnt  that  Sophy  was  in  the  drawing- 
room,  where  he  found  her  curled  up  in  the  corner  of  the 
sofa,  reading  intently. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  surprise,  but  did 
not  approach,  though  he  held  out  his  arms,  saying  in  a 
voice  husky  with  anxiety, '  Is  the  baby  well,  Sophia  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  she  cried,  *  quite  well ;  he  is  out  in  the  carriage 
with  them.'  Then  shrinking  as  he  was  stooping  to  kiss 
her,  she  continued,  reddening  deeply,  '  Papa,  I  did  very 
wrong ;  I  was  sly  and  disobedient,  and  I  might  have 
killed  him.' 

'  Do  not  let  us  speak  of  that  now,  my  dear ;  I  want  to 
hear  of — '  and  again  he  would  have  drawn  her  into  his 
embrace,  but  she  held  out  her  hand,  with  her  repelling 
gesture,  and  burst  forth  in  her  rude  honesty,  1 1  can't  be 
forgiven  only  because  I  am  ill.  Hear  all  about  it,  papa, 
and  then  say  you  forgive  me  if  you  can.  I  always  was 
cross  to  mamma,  because  I  was  determined  I  would  be  ; 
and  I  did  not  think  she  had  any  business  with  us.  The 
more  she  was  kind,  the  more  I  did  not  like  it ;  and  I 
7 


146  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

thought  it  was  mean  in  Gilbert  and  Lucy  to  be  fond  of 
her.  No  !  I  have  not  done  yet !  I  grew  naughtier  and 
naughtier,  till  at  last  I  have  been  false  and  sly,  and — 
have  done  this  to  baby — and  I  would  not  have  cared  then 
— if — if  she  would  not  have  been — oh  !  so  good  %  ' 

Sophy  made  no  farther  resistance  to  the  arm  that  was 
thrown  round  her,  as  her  father  said,  '  So  good,  that  she 
has  overcome  evil  with  good.  My  child,  how  should  I 
not  forgive  when  you  are  sensible  of  your  mistake,  and 
when  she  has  so  freely  forgiven  f ' 

Sophy  did  not  speak,  but  she  pressed  his  arm  closer 
round  her,  and  laid  her  cheek  gratefully  on  his  shoulder. 
She  only  wished  it  could  last  for  ever ;  but  he  soon  lifted 
her,  that  he  might  look  anxiously  at  her  face,  while  he 
said,  'And  what  is  all  this,  my  dear  f  I  am  afraid  you  are 
not  well.' 

Her  energies  were  recalled ;  and,  squeezing  his  hand, 
she  said,  '  Mind  you  will  not  let  them  say  it  was  mamma's 
fault.' 

1  Who  is  accusing  her,  my  dear  ?    What  is  the  matter  ? ' 

'  It  is  only  my  back,'  said  Sophy  ;  '  there  always  was  a 
stupid  pain  there ;  but  grandmamma's  Betty  said  I  made 
a  fuss,  and  that  it  was  all  laziness,  and  I  would  not  let 
any  one  say  so  again,  and  I  never  told  of  it ;  and  it  went 
on  till  the  other  night  I  grew  faint  at  church,  and  Mrs. 
Dusautoy  put  mamma  in  such  a  fright,  that  we  all  came 
here  yesterday ;  and  there  came  a  doctor  this  morning, 
who  says  my  spine  is  not  straight,  and  that  I  must  lie  on 
my  back  for  a  long  time  ;  but  never  mind,  papa,  it  will  be 
very  comfortable  to  lie  still  and  read,  and  I  shall  not  be 
cross  now,'  she  added  reassuringly,  as  his  grasp  pressed  her 
close,  with  a  start  of  dismay. 

'  My  dear,  I  am  afraid  you  hardly  know  what  you  may 
have  to  go  through  ;  but  I  am  glad  you  meet  it  bravely.' 

'  But  you  won't  let  them  say  mamma  did  it  I ' 

*  Who  should  say  so  ?  ' 

*  Aunt  Maria  will,  and  mamma  will  go  and  say  so  her- 
self, cried  Sophy ;  '  she  will  say  it  was  taking  walks  and 
carrying  baby,  and  it's  not  true.  I  told  the  doctor  how 
my  back  ached  long  before  baby  came  or  she  either ;  and 


THE   YOUNG    STEP- MOTHER.  147 

he  said  that  most  likely  the  weakness  had  been  left  by  the 
fever.  So  if  it  is  any  one's  mismanagement,  it  is  Aunt 
Maria's ;  and  if  you  won't  tell  her  so,  I  will.' 

*  Gently,  Sophy ;  that  would  hardly  be  grateful,  after 
the  pains  that  she  has  taken  with  you,  and  the  care  she 
meant  to  give.' 

i  Her  care  was  all  worry,'  said  Sophy ;  '  and  it  will  be 
very  lucky  if  I  don't  tell  her  so,  if  she  says  her  provoking 
things  to  mamma.     But  you  won't  believe  them,  papa  ? ' 

1  Most  certainly  not.' 

*  Yes,  you  must  tell  her  to  be  happy  again,'  continued 
Sophy  ;  '  I  cannot  bear  to  see  her  looking  sorrowful !  Last 
night,  when  she  fancied  me  asleep,  she  cried — oh !  till  it 
made  me  miserable !  And  to-day  I  heard  Miss  Ferrars 
say  to  Mrs.  Annesley,  that  her  fine  spirits  were  quite  gone. 
You  know  it  is  very  silly ;  for  I  am  the  last  person  in  all 
the  world  she  ought  to  cry  for.' 

'  She  has  an  infinite  treasure  of  love,'  said  Mr.  Kendal ; 
'  and  we  have  done  very  little  that  we  should  be  blessed 
with  it.' 

'  There,  they  are  come  home  ! '  exclaimed  Sophy,  start- 
ing up  as  sounds  were  heard  on  the  stairs,  and  almost  at 
the  same  moment  Albinia  was  in  the  room,  overflowing 
with  contrition,  gladness,  and  anxiety;  but  something  of 
sweetness  in  the  first  hasty  greeting  made  the  trust  over- 
come all  the  rest ;  and,  understanding  his  uppermost  wish, 
she  stepped  back  to  the  staircase,  and  in  another  second 
had  put  Maurice  into  his  arms,  blooming  and  contented, 
and  with  a  wide-mouthed  smile  for  his  papa.  Mr.  Kendal 
held  him  fondly  through  all  the  hospitable  welcomes  of  the 
aunts,  and  his  own  explanations  ;  but  to  Albinia  it  was 
all  confusion,  and  almost  annoyance,  till  she  could  take 
him  upstairs,  and  tell  her  own  story. 

'  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  very  much  alarmed,'  were 
his  first  words. 

'  I  have  done  everything  wrong  from  beginning  to  end,' 
said  Albinia.  '  Oh,  Edmund,  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come  ! 
Now  you  will  see  the  doctor,  and  know  whether  it  was  as 
bad  as  all  the  rest  to  bring  her  to  London.' 

c  My  dearest,  you  must  calm  yourself,  and  try  to  ex- 


148  THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

plain.  You  know  I  understand  nothing  yet,  except  from 
your  resolute  little  advocate  downstairs,  and  your  own 
note,  which  I  could  scarcely  make  out,  except  that  you 
were  in  great  trouble.' 

*  Ah,  that  note ;  I  wrote  it  in  one  of  my  impetuous 
fits.  Maurice  used  to  say  I  ran  frantic,  and  grew  irrational; 
and  so  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying  to  you ;  and  I 
brought  that  poor  patient  girl  up  here  in  all  the  heat,  and 
the  journey  hurt  her  so  much,  that  I  don't  know  how  we 
shall  ever  get  her  home  again.  Oh,  Edmund,  I  am  the 
worst  wife  and  mother  in  the  world ;  and  I  undertook  it 
all  with  such  foolish  confidence.' 

Mr.  Kendal  liked  her  impetuous  fits  as  little  as  her 
brother  did,  and  was  not  so  much  used  to  them ;  but  he 
dealt  with  her  in  his  quiet,  straightforward  way.  '  You 
are  exaggerating  now,  Albinia,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  it, 
for  you  have  had  a  great  deal  to  startle  and  to  try  you. 
Walking  up  and  down  is  only  heating  and  agitating  you 
more ;  sit  down  here,  and  let  me  hear  what  gave  you  this 
alarm.' 

The  grave  affection  of  his  manner  restrained  her,  and 
his  presence  soothed  the  flutter  of  spirits  ;  though  she  still 
devoted  herself  with  a  sort  of  wilfulness  to  bear  all  the 
blame,  until  he  said,  '  This  is  foolish,  Albinia  ;  it  is  of  no 
use  to  look  at  anything  but  the  simple  truth.  This  affec- 
tion of  the  spine  must  be  constitutional ;  and  if  neglect 
have  aggravated  the  evil,  it  must  date  from  a  much  earlier 
period  than  since  she  has  been  under  your  charge.  If  any 
one  be  to  blame,  it  is  myself,  for  the  apathy  that  prevented 
me  from  placing  the  poor  things  under  proper  care ;  but  I 
was  hardly  then  aware  that  Maria's  solicitude  is  always  in 
the  wrong  place.' 

'  But  everybody  declares  that  it  was  always  visible, 
and  that  no  one  could  look  at  her  without  seeing  that  she 
was  crooked.' 

'  Apres  le  coup,'  said  Mr.  Kendal.  *  I  grant  you  that 
a  person  of  more  experience  might  perhaps  have  detected 
what  was  amiss  sooner  than  you  did  ;  but  you  have  only 
to  regret  the  ignorance  you  shared  with  us  all ;  and  you 
did  your  utmost  according  to  your  judgment.' 


THE   YOTJXG    STEP-MOTHER.  149 

*  And  a  cruel  utmost  it  was,'  said  Albinia ;  *  it  is  frignt- 
ful  to  think  what  I  inflicted,  and  she  endured  in  silence, 
because  I  had  not  treated  her  so  that  she  could  bear  to 
speak  to  me.' 

'  That  is  over  now,'  said  Mr.  Kendal  ;  <  you  have  con- 
quered her  at  last.  Pride  could  not  hold  out  against  such 
sweetness.' 

'  It  is  her  generosity,'  said  Albinia ;  '  I  always  knew 
she  was  the  best  of  them  all,  if  one  could  but  get  at  her.' 

1  What  have  you  done  to  her  1  I  never  heard  her  say 
half  so  much  as  she  voluntarily  said  to  me  just  now.' 

'  Poor  dear  !  I  believe  the  key  of  her  heart  was  lost 
when  Edmund  died,  and  so  all  within  was  starved,'  said 
Albinia.  '  Yes,'  as  his  eyes  were  suddenly  raised  and 
fixed  on  her,  '  I  got  to  that  at  last.  No  one  has  ever 
understood  her,  since  she  lost  her  brother.' 

i  She  has  a  certain  likeness  to  him.  I  knew  she  was 
his  favourite  sister ;  but  such  a  child  as  she  was — ' 

'  Children  have  deeper  souls  than  you  give  them  credit 
for,'  said  Albinia.  '  Yes,  Edmund,  you  and  Sophy  are 
very  much  alike !  you  had  your  study,  and  poor  Sophy 
enclosed  herself  in  a  perpetual  cocoon  of  study  atmosphere, 
and  so  you  never  found  each  other  out  till  to-day.' 

Perhaps  it  was  the  influence  of  the  frantic  fit  that 
caused  her  to  make  so  direct  a  thrust ;  but  Mr.  Kendal 
was  not  offended.  There  was  a  good  deal  in  the  mere 
absence  from  habitual  scenes  and  associations  ;  he  always 
left  a  great  deal  of  reserve  behind  him  at  Bayford. 

*  You  may  be  right,  Albinia,'  he  said ;  '  I  sometimes 
think  that  amongst  us  you  are  like  the  old  poet's  "  star 
confined  into  a  tomb."  ' 

Such  a  compliment  was  a  pretty  reward  for  her  -te- 
merity. 

Returning  to  business,  she  found  that  her  journey  was 
treated  as  more  judicious  than  she  deserved.  The  conse- 
quences had  justified  her  decision.  Mr.  Kendal  knew  it 
was  the  right  thing  to  be  done,  and  was  glad  to  have  been 
spared  the  dreadful  task  of  making  up  his  mind  to  it. 
He  sat  down  of  his  own  accord  to  write  a  note  to  Wini- 
fred, beginning,  'Albinia  was  right  as  she  always  is  ;'  and 


150  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

though  his  wife  interlined,  '  Albinia  had  no  right  to  be 
right,  for  she  was  inconsiderate,  as  she  always  is/  she 
looked  so  brilliantly  pretty  and  bright,  and  was  so  full  of 
sunny  liveliness,  that  she  occasioned  one  of  the  very  few 
disputes  between  her  good  aunts.  Miss  Ferrars  declared 
that  poor  Albinia  was  quite  revived  by  the  return  to  her 
old  home,  and  absence  of  care  ;  while  Mrs.  Annesley  in- 
sisted on  giving  the  credit  to  Mr.  Kendal.  They  were 
perfectly  agreed  in  unwillingness  to  part  with  their  guests ; 
and  as  the  doctor  wished  to  see  more  of  his  patient,  the 
visit  was  prolonged,  to  the  enjoyment  of  all  parties. 

Sophy  had  received  her  sentence  so  easily,  that  it  was 
suspected  that  she  did  not  realize  the  tedium  of  confine- 
ment, and  was  relieved  by  being  allowed  to  be  inactive. 
Until  she  should  go  home,  she  might  do  whatever  did  not 
fatigue  her ;  but  most  sights,  and  even  the  motion  of  the 
carriage,  were  so  fatiguing,  that  she  was  much  more  in- 
clined to  remain  at  home  and  revel  in  the  delightful  world 
of  books.  The  kind,  unobtrusive  petting ;  the  absence  of 
customary  irritations ;  the  quiet  high-bred  tone  of  the 
family,  so  acted  upon  her,  as  to  render  her  something  as 
agreeably  new  to  herself  as  to  other  people.  The  glum 
mask  was  cast  aside,  she  responded  amiably  to  kindness 
and  attention,  allowed  herself  to  be  drawn  into  conversa- 
tion, and  developed  much  more  intelligence  and  depth 
than  even  Albinia  had  given  her  credit  for. 

One  day,  when  Miss  Ferrars  was  showing  Mr.  Ken- 
dal some  illustrations  of  Indian  scenery,  a  question  arose 
upon  the  date  of  the  native  sovereign  to  whom  the  build- 
ings were  ascribed.  Mr.  Kendal  could  not  recollect ;  but 
Sophia,  looking  up,  quietly  pronounced  the  date,  and  gave 
her  reasons  for  it.  Miss  Ferrars  asked  how  she  could 
have  learnt  so  much  on  an  out-of-the-way  topic. 

'  I  read  a  book  of  the  history  of  India,  up  in  the  loft,' 
said  Sophy. 

'  That  book  ! '  exclaimed  her  father ;  '  I  wish  you  joy  ! 
I  never  could  get  through  it !  It  is  the  driest  chronicle 
I  ever  read — a  mere  book  of  reference.  What  could  in- 
duce you  to  read  that  ? ' 

1 1  would  read  anything  about  India  j '  and  her  tone, 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  151 

though  low  and  subdued,  betrayed  such  enthusiasm  as 
could  find  nothing  dry,  and  this  in  a  girl  who  had  read 
aloud  the  reign  of  Edward  III.  with  stolid  indifference  ! 

'  Well,  I  think  I  can  promise  you  more  interesting 
reading  about  India  when  we  go  home,'  said  Mr.  Kendal. 

The  colour  rose  on  Sophy's  cheek.  Books  out  of 
papa's  study  !  Could  the  world  offer  a  greater  privilege  ? 
She  could  scarcely  pronounce,  '  Thank  you.' 

'  Very  faithful  to  her  birth-place,'  said  Miss  Ferrars  ; 
*  but  she  must  have  been  very  young  when  she  came 
home.' 

'About  five  years  old,  I  believe/  said  her  father. 
'  You  surely  can  remember  nothing  of  Talloon.' 

1 1  don't  know,'  said  Sophy,  mournfully  ;  '  I  used — ' 

'  I  thought  Indian  children  usually  lost  their  eastern 
recollections  very  early,'  said  Miss  Ferrars ;  '  I  never 
heard  of  one  who  could  remember  the  sound  of  Hin- 
dostanee  a  year  after  coming  homo.' 

Mr.  Kendal,  entertained  and  gratified,  turned  to  his 
daughter ;  and,  by  way  of  experiment,  began  a  short  sen- 
tence in  Hindostanee  ;  but  the  first  sound  brought  a  glow 
to  her  cheeks,  and  with  a  hurried  gesture,  she  murmured, 
1  Please  don't,  papa.' 

Albinia  saw  that  feelings  were  here  concerned  which 
must  not  be  played  on  in  public ;  and  she  hastily  plunged 
into  the  discussion,  and  drew  it  away  from  Sophy.  Fol- 
lowing her  up-stairs  at  bed-time,  she  contrived  to  win 
from  her  an  explanation. 

Edmund  had  been  seven  years  old  at  the  time  of  the 
return  to  England.  Fondly  attached  to  some  of  the 
Hindoo  servants,  and  with  unusual  intelligence  and  ob- 
servation, the  gorgeous  scenery  and  oriental  habits  of  his 
first  home  had  dwelt  vividly  in  his  imagination,  and  he 
had  always  considered  himself  as  only  taken  to  England 
for  a  time,  to  return  again  to  India.  Thus,  he  had  been 
fond  of  romancing  of  the  past  and  of  the  future,  and  had 
never  let  his  little  sister's  recollections  fade  entirely  away. 
His  father  had  likewise  thought  that  it  would  save  future 
trouble  to  keep  up  the  boys'  knowledge  of  the  language, 
which  would  by-and-by  be  so  important  to  them.     Gil- 


152  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

bert's  health  had  caused  his  studies  to  be  often  intermit- 
ted, but  Edmund  had  constantly  received  instructions  in 
the  Indian  languages,  and  whatever  he  learnt  had  been 
imparted  to  Sophia.  It  was  piteous  to  discover  how 
much  time  the  poor  forlorn  little  girl  had  spent  sitting 
on  the  floor  in  the  loft,  poring  over  old  grammars,  and 
phrase-books,  and  translations  of  missionary  or  govern- 
ment school-books  there  accumulated — anything  that  re- 
lated to  India,  or  that  seemed  to  carry  on  what  she  had 
done  with  Edmund  :  and  she  had  acquired  just  enough  to 
give  her  a  keen  appetite  for  all  the  higher  class  of  lore, 
which  she  knew  to  reside  in  the  unapproachable  study. 
Those  few  familiar  words  from  her  father  had  overcome 
her,  because,  a  trivial  greeting  in  themselves,  they  had 
been  a  kind  of  password  between  her  and  her  brother. 

Mr.  Kendal  was  greatly  touched  and  very  remorseful 
for  having  left  such  a  heart  to  pine  in  solitude,  while  he 
was  absorbed  in  his  own  lonely  grief;  and  Albinia  ven- 
tured to  say,  '  I  believe  the  greatest  pleasure  you  could 
give  her  would  be  to  help  her  to  keep  up  the  language.' 

He  smiled,  but  said,  '  Of  what  possible  use  could  it 
be  to  her  %  ' 

'  I  was  not  thinking  of  future  use.  It  would  be  of 
immense  present  use  to  her  to  do  anything  with  you,  and 
I  can  see  that  nothing  would  gratify  her  so  much.  Be- 
sides, I  have  been  trying  to  think  of  all  the  new  things  I 
could  set  her  to  do.  She  must  have  lessons  to  fill  up  the 
day,  and  I  want  to  make  fresh  beginnings,  and  not"  go 
back  to  the  blots  and  scars  of  our  old  misunderstandings.' 

'You  want  me  to  teach  her  Sanscrit  because  you 
cannot  teach  her  Italian.' 

4  Exactly  so,'  said  Albinia ;  '  and  the  Italian  will  spring 
all  the  better  from  the  venerable  root,  when  we  have  for- 
gotten how  cross  we  used  to  be  to  each  other  over  our 
relative  pronouns.' 

'  But  there  is  hardly  anything  which  I  could  let  her 
read  in  those  languages.' 

'  Very  likely  not ;  but  you  can  pick  out  what  there  is. 
Do  you  remember  the  fable  of  the  treasure  that  was  to 
be  gained  by  digging  under  the  apple-tree,  and  which 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  153 

turned  out  not  to  be  gold,  but  the  fruit,  the  consequence 
of  digging  ?  Now,  I  want  you  to  dig  Sophy  ;  a  Sanscrit, 
or  a  Hindostanee,  or  a  Persian  treasure  will  do  equally 
well  as  a  pretext.  If  she  had  announced  a  taste  for  the 
differential  calculus,  I  should  have  said  the  same.  Only 
dig  her,  as  Maurice  dug  me  apropos  to  Homer.  I 
wouldn't  bother  you,  only  you  see  no  one  else  could 
either  do  it,  or  be  the  same  to  Sophy.' 

'  We  will  see  how  it  is,'  said  Mr.  Kendal. 

With  which  Albinia  was  obliged  to  be  content ;  but 
in  the  mean  time  she  saw  the  two  making  daily  progress 
in  intimacy,  and  Mr.  Kendal  beginning  to  take  pride  in 
his  daugher's  undersanding  and  information,  which  he 
ascribed  to  Albinia,  in  spite  of  all  her  disclaimers.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  evoked  the  spirit  of  his  lost  son,  which 
had  lain  hidden  under  the  sullen  demeanour  of  the  girl, 
devoid  indeed  of  many  of  Edmund's  charms,  but  yet  with 
the  same  sterling  qualities,  and  with  resemblance  enough 
to  afford  infinite  and  unexpected  joy  and  compensation. 

Mr.  Kendal  enjoyed  his  stay  in  town.  He  visited 
libraries,  saw  pictures,  and  heard  music,  with  the  new 
zest  of  having  a  wife  able  to  enter  into  his  tastes.  He 
met  old  friends,  and  did  not  shrink  immoderately  from 
those  of  his  wife ;  nay,  he  found  them  extremely  agree- 
able, and  was  pleased  to  see  Ablinia  welcomed.  Indeed, 
his  sojourn  in  her  former  sphere  served  to  make  him 
wonder  that  she  could  be  contented  with  Bayford,  and  to 
find  her,  of  the  whole  party,  by  far  the  most  ready  to 
return  home.  Both  he  himself  and  Sophy  had  an  un- 
avowed  dread  of  the  influences  of  Willow  Lawn ;  but 
Albinia  had  a  spring  of  spirits,  independent  of  place,  and 
though  happy,  was  craving  for  her  duties,  anxious  to  have 
the  journey  over,  and  afraid  that  London  was  making  her 
little  Maurice  pale. 

Miss  Meadows  was  the  first  person  whom  they  saw 
at  Willow  Lawn.  Two  letters  had  passed,  both  so  con- 
ventionally civil,  that  her  state  of  mind  could  not  be  gath- 
ered from  them  ;  but  her  first  tones  proved  that  coherence 
was  more  than  ever  wanting ;  and  no  one  attempted  to 
understand  anything  she  said,  while  she  enfolded  Sophy 


154  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 


in  an  agitated  embrace,  and  marshalled  them  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  the  chief  of  the  apologies  were  spent 
upon  Sophy's  new  couch,  which  had  been  sent  down  the 
day  before  by  the  luggage-train,  and  which  she  and  Ewe- 
retta  had  attempted  to  put  together  in  an  impossible  way, 
failing  which,  they  had  called  in  the  carpenter,  who  had 
made  it  worse. 

It  was  an  untold  advantage  that  she  had  to  take  the 
initiative  in  excuses.  Sophy  was  so  meek  with  weariness, 
that  she  took  pretty  well  all  the  kind  fidgeting  that  could 
not  be  averted  from  her,  and  Miss  Meadows's  discourse 
chiefly  tended  to  assurances  that  Mrs.  Kendal  was  right, 
and  grandmamma  was  nervous — and  poor  Mr.  BowTles — 
it  could  not  be  expected — with  hints  of  the  wonderful 
commotion  the  sudden  flight  to  London  had  excited  at 
Bay  ford.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Kendal  quitted  the  room,  these 
hints  were  converted  into  something  between  expostula- 
tion, condolence,  and  congratulation. 

It  was  so  very  fortunate — so  very  lucky  that  dear 
Mr.  Kendal  had  come  home  with  her,  for — she  had  said 
she  would  let  Mrs.  Kendal  hear,  if  only  that  she  might  be 
on  her  guard — people  were  so  ill-natured — there  never 
was  such  a  place  for  gossip — not  that  she  had  heard  it 
from  any  one  but  Mrs.  Drury,  who  really  now  had 
driven  in — not  that  she  believed  it,  but  to  ascertain. — 
For  Mrs.  Drury  had  been  told — mentioning  no  names — 
oh,  no !  for  fear  of  making  mischief — she  had  been  told 
that  Mrs.  Kendal  had  actually  been  into  Mr.  Kendal's 
study,  which  was  always  kept  locked  up,  and  there  she 
had  found  something  which  had  distressed  her  so  much 
that  she  had  gone  to  Mr.  Dusautoy,  and  by  his  advice 
had  fled  from  home  to  the  protection  of  her  brother  in 
Canada. 

'  Without  waiting  for  Bluebeard's  asking  for  the  key  ! 
Oh,  Maria  ! '  cried  Albinia,  in  a  fit  of  laughter,  while 
Sophia  sat  up  on  the  sofa  in  speechless  indignation. 

'  You  may  laugh,  Mrs.  Kendal,  if  you  please,'  said 
Maria,  with  tart  dignity ;  '  I  have  told  you  nothing  but 
the  truth.  I  should  have  thought  for  my  part,  but  that's 
of  no  consequence,  it  was  as  well  to  be  on  one's  guard  in 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  155 

a  nest  of  vipers,  for  Edmund's  sake,  if  not  for  your  own.' 
And  as  this  last  speech  convulsed  Albinia,  and  rendered 
her  incapable  of  reply,  Miss  Meadows  became  pathetic. 
'  I  am  sure  the  pains  I  have  taken  to  trace  out  and  contra- 
dict— and  so  nervous  as  grandmamma  has  been —  "  I'm 
sure,  Mrs.  Drury,"  said  I,  "  that  though  Edmund  Kendal 
does  lock  his  study-door,  nobody  ever  thought  anything 
— the  housemaids  go  in  to  clean  it — and  I've  been  in  my- 
self when  the  whitewashers  were  about  the  house — I'm 
sure  Mrs.  Kendal  is  a  most  amiable  young  woman,  and 
you  wouldn't  raise  reports."  "  No,"  she  said,  "  but  Mrs. 
Osborn  was  positive  that  Mrs.  Kendal  was  nearly  an  hour 
shut  up  alone  in  the  study  the  night  of  Sophy's  accident 
— and  so  sudden,"  she  said,  "  the  carriage  being  sent  for 
— not  a  servant  knew  of  it — and  then,"  she  said,  "  it  was 
always  the  talk  among  the  girls,  that  Mr.  Kendal  kept 
his  study  a  forbidden  place."  ' 

1  Then,'  said  Sophia,  slowly,  as  she  looked  full  at  her 
aunt,  '  it  was  the  Osborns  who  dared  to  say  such  wicked 
things.' 

'There  now,  I  never  meant  you  to  be  there.  You 
ought  to  be  gone  to  bed,  child.  It  is  not  a  thing  for  you 
to  know  anything  about.' 

'I  only  want  to  know  whether  it  was  the  Osborns 
who  invented  these  stories,'  said  Sophy. 

'  My  dear,'  exclaimed  Albinia,  '  what  can  it  signify  ? 
They  are  only  a  very  good  joke.  I  did  not  think  there 
had  been  so  much  imagination  in  Bayford.'  And  off  she 
went  laughing  again. 

'  They  are  very  wicked,'  said  Sophy  ;  '  Aunt  Maria,  I 
will  know  if  it  was  Mrs.  Osborn  who  told  the  story.' 

Sophy's  will  was  too  potent  for  Miss  Meadows,  and 
the  admission  was  extracted  in  a  burst  of  other  odds  and 
ends,  in  the  midst  of  which  Albinia  beheld  Sophy  cross 
the  room  with  a  deliberate,  determined  step.  Flying 
after  her  she  found  her  in  the  hall,  wrapping  herself  up. 

'  Sophy,  what  is  this  1     What  are  you  about  1 ' 

1  Let  me  alone,'  said  Sophy,  straining  against  her  de- 
taining hand  ;  '  I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  recover  again, 
and  I  will  go  at  once  to  tell  the  Osborns  that  I  have  done 


156  THE   YOUNG   STJEP-MOTHER. 

with  them.  I  stuck  to  them  because  I  thought  they  were 
my  mother's  friends;  I  did  not  guess  that  they  would 
make  an  unworthy  use  of  my  friendship,  and  invent 
wicked  stories  of  my  father  and  you.' 

'Please  don't  make  me  laugh,  Sophy,  for  I  don't 
want  to  affront  you.  Yes,  it  is  generous  feeling  ;  I  don't 
wonder  you  are  angry;  but  indeed  silly  nonsense  like 
this  is  not  worth  it.  It  will  die  away  of  itself;  it  must 
be  dead  already,  now  they  have  seen  we  have  not  run 
away  to  Canada.  Your  heroics  only  make  it  more  ri- 
diculous.' 

'  I  must  tell  Loo  never  to  come  here  with  her  hypoc- 
risy/ repeated  Sophy,  standing  still,  but  not  yielding  an 
inch. 

Miss  Meadows  pursued  them  at  the  same  moment 
with  broken  protestations  that  they  must  forget  it,  she 
never  meant  to  make  mischief,  &c,  and  the  confusion  was 
becoming  worse  confounded  when  Mr.  Kendal  emerged 
from  the  study  demanding  what  was  the  matter,  to  the 
great  discomfiture  of  Maria,  who  began  hushing  Sophy, 
and  making  signs  to  Albinia  that  it  would  be  dangerous 
for  him  to  know  anything  about  it. 

But  Albinia  was  already  exclaiming,  '  Here's  a  cham- 
pion wanting  to  do  battle  with  Louisa  Osborn  in  our 
cause.  Oh,  Edmund  !  our  neighbours  could  find  no  way 
of  accounting  for  my  taking  French  leave,  but  by  suppos- 
ing that  I  took  advantage  of  being  shut  in  there,  while 
poor  little  Maurice  was  squalling  so  furiously,  to  rifle 
your  secrets,  and  detect  something  so  shocking,  that  away 
I  was  fleeing  to  William  in  Canada.' 

1  Obliging,'  quietly  said  Mr.  Kendal. 

'  Now,  dear  Edmund — I  know — for  my  sake — for 
everything's  sake,  remember  you  are  a  family  man,  don't 
take  any  notice.' 

'  I  certainly  shall  take  no  notice  of  such  folly,'  said 
Mr.  Kendal,  '  and  I  wish  that  no  one  else  should.  What 
are  you  about,  Sophia  1 ' 

1  Tell  mamma  to  let  me  go,  papa,'  she  exclaimed ;  *  I 
must  and  will  tell  Louisa  that  I  hate  her  baseness  and 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  157 

hypocrisy,  and  then  I'll  never  speak  to  her  again.  Why 
will  mamma  laugh  1     It  is  very  wicked  of  them.' 

'  Wrong  in  them,  but  laughing  is  the  only  way  to 
treat  it,'  said  Mr.  Kendal.  '  Go  back  to  your  sofa  and 
forget  it.  Your  aunt  and  I  have  heard  Bayford  reports 
before.' 

Sophy  obeyed  unwillingly  ;  she  was  far  too  much  in- 
censed to  forget.  On  her  aunt's  taking  leave,  and  Mr. 
Kendal  offering  his  escort  up  the  hill,  she  rose  up  again, 
and  would  have  perpetrated  a  denunciation  by  letter,  had 
not  Albinia  seriously  argued  with  her,  and  finding  rid- 
icule, expediency,  and  Christian  forgiveness  all  fail  of  hit- 
ting the  mark,  said,  '  I  don't  know  with  what  face  you 
could  attack  Louisa,  when  you  helped  her  to  persecute 
poor  Genevieve  because  you  thought  she  had  an  instru- 
ment of  torture  in  her  drawer.' 

1  It  was  not  I  who  said  that,'  said  Sophy,  blushing. 

'  You  took  part  with  those  who  did.  And  poor 
Genevieve  was  a  much  more  defenceless  victim  than  papa 
or  myself.' 

'  I  would  not  do  so  now.' 

1  It  does  not  take  much  individual  blackness  of  heart 
to  work  up  a  fine  promising  slander.  A  surmise  made 
in  jest,  is  repeated  in  earnest,  and  all  the  other  tale-bear- 
ers think  they  are  telling  simple  facts.  Depend  upon  it, 
the  story  did  not  set  off  from  the  Osborns  by  any  means 
as  it  came  back  to  Aunt  Maria.' 

'  I  should  like  to  know.' 

'  Don't  let  us  make  it  any  worse ;  and  above  all,  do 
not  let  us  tell  Lucy.' 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  said  Sophy,  emphatically. 

To  Albinia's  surprise  no  inuendo  from  Mrs.  or  Miss 
Meadows  ever  referred  to  her  management  having  caused 
Sophy's  misfortune ;  and  she  secretly  attributed  this  si- 
lence to  Mr.  Kendal's  having  escorted  his  sister-in-law  to 
her  own  house. 

Sophy's  chief  abode  became  the  morning-room,  and 
she  seemed  very  happy  and  tranquil  there — shrinking 
from  visitors,  but  grateful  for  the  kindness  of  parents, 
brother  and  sister. 


158  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

Mr.  Kendal,  finding  her  really  eager  to  learn  of  him, 
began  teaching  her  Persian,  and  was  astonished  at  her 
promptness  and  intelligence.  He  took  increasing  pleasure 
in  her  company,  gave  her  books  to  read,  and  would  some- 
times tell  the  others  not  to  stay  at  home  for  her  sake,  as 
he  should  be  '  about  the  house.' 

He  really  gave  up  much  time  to  her,  and  used  to 
carry  her,  when  the  weather  served,  to  a  couch  in  the 
garden,  for  she  could  not  bear  the  motion  of  wheels,  and 
was  forbidden  to  attempt  walking,  though  she  was  to  be 
in  the  air  as  much  as  possible,  so  that  Albinia  spent  more 
time  at  home.  The  charge  of  Sophy  was  evidently  her 
business,  and  after  talking  the  matter  over  with  Mrs.  Du- 
sautoy,  she  resigned,  though  not  without  a  pang,  the 
offices  she  had  undertaken  in  the  time  of  her  superfluous 
activity,  and  limited  herself  to  occasional  superintendence, 
instead  of  undertaking  constant  employment  in  the  parish. 
Though  she  felt  grieved  and  humiliated,  Willow  Lawn 
throve  the  better  for  it,  and  so  did  her  own  mind,  yes, 
and  even  her  temper,  which  was  far  less  often  driven  by 
over-haste  into  quick  censure,  or  unconsidered  reply. 

Her  mistakes  about  Sophia  had  been  a  lesson  against 
one-sided  government.  At  first,  running  into  the  other 
extreme,  she  was  ready  to  imagine  that  all  the  past  ill- 
humour  had  been  the  effect  of  her  neglect  and  cruelty ; 
and  Sophy's  amiability  almost  warranted  the  notion.  The 
poor  girl  herself  had  promised  '  never  to  be  cross  again,' 
and  fancied  all  temptation  was  over,  since  she  had '  found 
out  mamma,'  and  papa  was  so  kind  to  her.  But  all  on  a 
sudden,  down  came  the  cloud  again.  Nobody  could  de- 
tect any  reason.  Affronts  abounded — not  received  with 
an  explosion  that  would  have  been  combated,  laughed  at, 
and  disposed  of,  but  treated  with  silence,  and  each  sinking 
down  to  be  added  to  the  weight  of  cruel  injuries.  There 
was  no  complaint ;  Sophy  obeyed  all  orders  with  her  old 
form  of  dismal  submission,  but  everything  proposed  to 
her  was  distasteful,  and  her  answers  were  in  the  ancient 
surly  style.  If  attempts  were  made  to  probe  the  malady, 
her  reserve  was  impenetrable — nothing  was  the  matter, 
she  wanted  nothing,  was  vexed  at  nothing.     She  pursued 


THE   YOUXG    STJEP-MOTHEK,  159 

her  usual  occupations,  but  as  if  they  were  hardships ;  she 
was  sullen  towards  her  mamma,  snappishly  brief  with  her 
aunt  and  sister,  and  so  ungracious  and  indifferent  even 
with  her  father,  that  Albinia  trembled  lest  he  might  with- 
draw the  attention  so  improperly  received.  When  this 
dreary  state  of  things  had  lasted  more  than  a  week,  he 
did  tell  her  that  if  she  were  tired  of  the  lessons,  it  was 
not  worth  while  to  proceed ;  but  that  he  had  hoped  for 
more  perseverance. 

The  fear  of  losing  these,  her  great  pride  and  pleasure, 
overcame  her.  She  maintaind  her  grim  composure  till 
he  had  left  her,  but  then  fell  into  a  violent  fit  of  crying, 
in  which  Albinia  found  her,  and  which  dissolved  the  re- 
serve into  complaints  that  every  one  was  very  cruel  and 
unkind,  and  she  was  the  most  miserable  girl  in  all  the 
world ;  papa  was  going  to  take  away  from  her  the  only 
one  thing  that  made  it  tolerable. 

Reasoning  was  of  no  use  ;  to  try  to  show  her  that  it 
was  her  own  behaviour  that  had  annoyed  him,  only  made 
her  mamma  appear  equally  hard-hearted,  and  she  contin- 
ued wretched  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  refusing  consolation, 
and  only  so  far  improved  that  avowed  discontent  was 
better  than  sullenness.  The  next  morning,  she  found  out 
that  it  was  not  the  world  that  was  in  league  against  her, 
but  that  she  had  fallen  into  the  condition  which  she  had 
thought  past  for  ever.  This  was  worst  of  all,  and  her 
disappointment  and  dejection  lasted  not  only  all  that  long 
day,  but  all  the  next,  making  her  receive  all  kindnesses 
with  a  broken-down,  wobegone  manner,  and  reply  to  all 
cheerful  encouragements  with  despair  about  anything  ever 
making  her  good.  Albinia  tried  to  put  her, in  mind  of 
the  Source  of  all  goodness  ;  but  any  visible  acceptance  of 
personal  applications  of  religious  teaching  had  not  yet 
been  accomplished. 

Gradually  all  cleared  up  again,  and  things  went  well 
till  for  some  fresh  trivial  cause  or  no  cause,  the  whole 
process  was  repeated — sulking,  injured  innocence,  and 
bitter  repentance.  This  time,  Mr.  Kendal  pronounced, 
•  This  is  low  spirits,  for  more  than  temper,'  and  he  thence- 
forth dealt  with  these  moods  with  a  tender  consideration 


160  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

that  Albinia  admired,  though  she  thought  at  times  that  to 
treat  them  more  like  temper  than  spirits  might  be  better 
for  Sophy  ;  but  it  was  evident  that  the  poor  child  herself 
had  at  present  little  if  any  power  either  of  averting  such 
an  access,  or  of  shaking  it  off.  The  danger  of  her  father's 
treatment  seemed  to  be,  that  the  humours  would  be  ac- 
aquiesced  in,  like  changes  in  the  weather,  and  that  she 
might  be  encouraged  neither  to  repent,  nor  to  struggle  ; 
while  her  captivity  made  her  much  more  liable  to  the 
tedium  and  sinking  of  heart  that  predisposed  her  to 
them. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  bear 
patiently  with  them  while  they  lasted,  to  console  the 
victim  afterwards,  lead  her  to  prayer  and  resolute  efforts, 
and  above  all  to  pray  for  her ;  as  well  as  to  avoid  occa- 
sions of  bringing  them  on ;  but  this  was  not  possible, 
since  no  one  could  live  without  occasional  contradiction, 
and  Sophy  could  sometimes  bear  a  strong  remonstrance 
or  great  disappointment,  when  at  others  a  hint,  or  an 
almost  imperceptible  vexation,  destroyed  her  peace  for 
days. 

Mr.  Kendal  bore  patiently  with  her  variations,  and 
did  his  best  to  amuse  away  her  gloom.  It  was  wonderful 
how  much  of  his  own  was  gone,  and  how  much  more  alive 
he  was.  He  had  set  himself  to  attack  the  five  public- 
houses  and  seven  beer-shops  in  Tibbs's  Alley,  and  since 
his  eyes  had  been  once  opened,  it  seemed  as  if  the  disor- 
ders became  more  flagrant  every  day.  At  last,  he 
pounced  on  a  misdemeanour  which  he  took  care  should 
come  before  the  magistrates,  and  he  was  much  annoyed 
to  find  the  case  dismissed  for  want  of  evidence.  One 
Sunday  he  beheld  the  end  of  a  fray  begun  during  service- 
time  ;  he  caused  an  information  to  be  laid,  and  went  him- 
self to  the  petty  sessions  to  represent  the  case,  but  the 
result  was  a  nominal  penalty.  The  Admiral  was  a  seeker 
of  popularity,  and  though  owning  that  the  town  was  in  a 
shocking  state,  and  making  great  promises  when  talked 
to  on  general  points,  yet  he  could  never  make  up  his 
mind  to  punish  any  '  poor  .fellow,'  unless  he  himself  were 
in  a  passion,  when  he  would  go  any  length.     The  other 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  161 

magistrates  would  not  interfere  ;  and  all  the  satisfaction 
Mr.  Kendal  obtained  was  being  told  how  much  he  was 
wanted  on  the  bench. 

One  of  the  few  respectable  Tibbs's  Alleyites  told  him 
that  it  was  of  no  use  to  complain,  for  the  publicans  boasted 
of  their  impunity,  snapped  their  fingers  at  him,  and  drank 
Admiral  Osborn's  health  as  their  friend.  The  conse- 
quence -was,  that  Mr.  Kendal  took  a  magnanimous  resolu- 
tion, ordered  a  copy  of  Burn's  Justice,  and  at  the  Septem- 
ber Quarter  Sessions  actually  rode  over  to  Hadminster,  an4 
took  the  oaths. 

On  the  whole,  the  expectation  was  more  formidable 
than  the  reality.  However  much  he  disliked  applying 
himself  to  business,  no  one  understood  it  better.  The 
value  of  his  good  sense,  judgment,  and  acuteness  was 
speedily  felt.  Mr.  Nugent,  the  chairman,  depended  on 
him  as  his  ally,  and  often  as  his  adviser ;  and  as  he  was 
thus  made  to  feel  hmself  of  weight  and  importance,  his 
aversion  subsided,  and  he  almost  learnt  to  look  forward  to 
a  chat  with  Mr.  Nugent ;  or  whether  he  looked  forward 
to  it  or  not,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  enjoyed  it. 
Though  still  shy,  grave,  silent,  and  inert,  there  was  a 
great  alteration  in  him  since  the  time  when  he  had  had 
no  friends,  no  interests,  no  pursuits  beyond  his  study  ;  and 
there  was  every  reason  to  think  that,  in  spite  of  the  many 
severe  shocks  to  his  mauvaise  honte,  he  was  a  much  happier 
man. 

His  wife  could  not  regret  that  his  magisterial  proceed- 
ings led  to  a  coolness  with  the  Osborns,  augmented  by  a 
vestry-meeting,  at  which  Mr.  Dusautoy  had  begged  him  to 
be  present.  The  Admiral  and  his  party  surpassed  them- 
selves in  their  virulence  against  whatever  the  vicar  pro- 
posed, until  they  fairly  roused  Mr.  Kendal's  ire,  and  '  he 
came  out  upon  them  all  like  a  lion ;  and  with  force  ap- 
pearing the  greater  from  being  so  seldom  exerted,  he 
represented  Mr.  Dusautoy's  conduct  in  appropriate  terms, 
showing  full  appreciation  of  his  merits,  and  holding  up 
their  own  course  before  them  in  its  true  light,  till  they  had 
nothing  to  say  for  themselves.  It  was  the  vicar's  first 
visible  victory.     The  increased  congregation  showed  how 


162  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

much  way  he  had  made  with  the  poor,  and  Mr.  Kendal 
taking  his  part  openly,  drew  over  many  of  the  trades- 
people, who  had  begun  to  feel  the  influence  of  his  hearty 
nature  and  consistent  uprightness,  and  had  become  used 
to  what  had  at  first  appeared  innovations.  Mr.  Dusautoy, 
in  thanking  Mr.  Kendal,  begged  him  to  allow  himself  to 
be  nominated  his  churchwarden  next  Easter,  and  having 
consented  while  his  blood  was  up,  there  was  no  danger 
that,  however  he  might  dislike  the  prospect,  he  would 
falter  when  the  time  should  come. 


CHAPTER  X. 

It  was  c  a  green  Yule,'  a  Christmas  like  an  April  day, 
and  even  the  lengthening  days  and  strengthening  cold 
of  January  attaining  to  nothing  more  than  three  slight 
hoar-frosts,  each  quickly  melting  into  mud,  and  the  last 
concluding  in  rain  and  fog. 

'What  would  Willow  Lawn  have  been  without  the 
drainage  ?  '  Albinia  often  thought  when  she  paddled  down 
the  wet  streets,  and  saw  the  fields  flooded.  The  damp 
had  such  an  effect  upon  Sophy's  throat,  temper,  and  whole 
nervous  system,  that  her  moods  had  few  intervals,  and 
Albinia  wrote  to  the  surgeon  a  detail  of  her  symptoms, 
asking  if  she  had  not  better  be  removed  into  a  more  favour- 
able air.  But  he  pronounced  that  the  injury  of  the  trans- 
port would  outbalance  the  casual  evils  of  the  bad  weather, 
and  as  the  rain  and  fog  mitigated,  she  improved ;  but 
there  were  others  on  whom  the  heavy  moist  air  had  a  more 
fatal  effect. 

One  morning,  Mr.  Kendal  saw  his  wife  descending 
the  picturesque  rugged  stone  staircase  that  led  outside  the 
house  to  the  upper  stories  of  the  old  block  of  buildings 
under  the  hill,  nearly  opposite  to  Willow  Lawn.  She 
came  towards  him  with  tears  still  in  her  eyes  as  she  said, 
'  Poor  Mrs.  Simkins  has  just  lost  her  little  girl,  and  I  am 
afraid  the  two  boys  are  sickening.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  163 

1  What  do  you  mean  ?  Is  the  fever  there  again  ? '  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Kendal  in  the  utmost  consternation. 

'  Did  you  not  know  it  ?  Lucy  has  been  very  anxious 
about  the  child,  who  was  in  her  class.' 

1  You  have  not  taken  Lucy  to  a  house  with  a  fever  ! ' 

*  No ;  I  thought  it  safer  not,  though  she  wanted  very 
much  to  go.1 

6  But  you  have  been  going  yourself! ' 

'  It  was  a  low,  lingering  fever.  I  had  not  thought  it 
infectious,  and  even  now  I  believe  it  is  only  one  of  those 
that  run  through  an  over-crowded  family.  The  only 
wonder  is,  that  they  are  ever  well  in  such  a  place.  Dear 
Edmund,  don't  be  angry ;  it  is  what  I  used  to  do  con- 
tinually at  Fairmead.  I  never  caught  anything ;  and 
there  is  plenty  of  chloride  of  lime,  and  all  that.  I  never 
imagined  you  would  disapprove.' 

i  It  is  the  very  place  where  the  fever  began  before ! ' 
said  Mr.  Kendal,  almost  under  his  breath. 

Instead  of  going  into  the  house,  he  made  her  turn  into 
the  garden,  where  little  Maurice  was  being  promenaded 
in  the  sun.  He  stretched  out  from  his  nurse's  arms  to  go 
to  them,  and  Albinia  was  going  towards  him,  but  her  hus- 
band held  her  fast,  and  said,  '  I  beg  you  will  not  take  the 
child  till  you  have  changed  your  dress.' 

Albinia  was  quite  subdued,  alarmed  at  the  effect  on 
him. 

I  You  must  go  away  at  once,'  he  said  presently.  '  How- 
soon  can  you  be  ready  1  You  had  better  take  Lucy  and 
Maurice  at  once  to  your  brother's.  They  will  excuse  the 
liberty  when  they  know  the  cause.' 

'  And  pray  what  is  to  become  of  poor  Sophy  % ' 
e  Never  going  out,  there  may  be  the  less  risk  for  her. 
I  will  take  care  of  her  myself.' 

'  As  if  I  was  going  to  endure  that ! '  cried  Albinia. 
1  No,  no,  Edmund,  I  am  not  likely  to  run  away  from  you 
and  Sophy !  You  may  send  Lucy  off,  if  you  like,  but  cer- 
tainly not  me,  or  if  you  do  I  shall  come  back  the  same 
evening.' 

I I  should  be  much  happier  if  you  were  gone.' 

*  Thank  you,  but  what  should  I  be  1     No,  if  it  were  to 


164  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

be  caught  here,  which  I  don't  believe,  now  the  pond  is 
gone,  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  send  me  away,  after  I  have 
been  into  the  house  with  it.' 

Her  resolution  and  Sophy's  need  prevailed,  and  most 
unwillingly  Mr.  Kendal  gave  up  the  point.  She  was  per- 
suaded that  he  was  acting  on  a  panic,  the  less  to  be 
wondered  at  after  all  he  had  suffered.  She  thought  the 
chief  danger  was  from  the  effect  of  his  fears,  and  would 
fain  have  persuaded  him  to  remain  at  Fairmead  with 
Lucy,  but  she  was  not  prepared  to  hear  him  insist  on  like- 
wise removing  Maurice.  She  had  promised  not  to  enter  the 
sick  room  again,  and  pleaded  that  the  little  boy  need 
never  be  taken  into  the  street — that  the  fever  was  not 
likely  to  come  across  the  running  stream — that  the  Fair- 
mead  nursery  was  full  enough  already. 

Mr.  Kendal  was  inexorable.  '  I  hope  you  may  never 
see  what  I  have  seen,'  he  said  gravely,  and  Albinia  was 
silenced. 

A  man  who  had  lost  so  many  children  might  be  allow- 
ed to  be  morbidly  jealous  of  the  health  of  the  rest.  But 
it  was  a  cruel  stroke  to  her  to  be  obliged  to  part  with  her 
noble  little  boy,  just  when  his  daily  advances  in  walking 
and  talking  made  him  more  charming  than  ever.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  she  struggled  to  choke  back 
some  pettish  rebellious  words. 

'  You  do  not  like  to  trust  him  with  Susan,'  said  Mr. 
Kendal ;  '  you  had  better  come  with  him.' 

'  No,'  said  Albinia,  '  I  ought  to  stay  here,  and  if  you 
judge  it  right,  Maurice  must  go.  I'll  go  and  speak  to 
Susan.' 

And  away  she  ran,  for  she  had  no  power  just  then  to 
speak  in  a  wifely  manner.  It  was  not  easy  to  respect  a 
man  in  a  panic  so  extremely  inconvenient. 

He  was  resolved  on  an  immediate  start,  and  the  next 
few  hours  were  spent  in  busy  preparation,  and  in  watching 
lest  the  excited  Lucy  should  frighten  her  sister.  Albinia 
tried  to  persuade  Mr.  Kendal  at  least  to  sleep  at  Fair- 
mead  that  night,  and  after  watching  him  drive  off,  she 
hurried,  dashing  away  the  tears  that  would  gather  again 
and  again  in  her  eyes,  to  hold  council  with  the  Dusautoys 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  165 

on  the  best  means  of  stopping  the  course  of  the  malady,  by 
depriving  it  of  its  victims. 

She  had  a  quiet  snug  evening  with  Sophy,  whom  she 
had  so  much  interested  in  the  destitution  of  the  sick  chil- 
dren as  to  set  her  to  work  at  some  night-gear  for  them ; 
and  she  afterwards  sat  long  over  the  fire  trying  to  read 
to  silence  the  longing  after  the  little  soft  cheek  that  had 
never  yet  been  laid  to  rest  without  her  caress,  and  fore- 
boding that  Mr.  Kendal  would  return  from  his  dark  soli- 
tary drive  with  his  spirits  at  the  lowest  ebb. 

So  late  that  she  had  begun  to  hope  that  Winifred  had 
obeyed  her  behest  and  detained  him,  she  heard  his  step, 
and  before  she  could  run  to  meet  him,  he  had  already  shut 
himself  into  the  study. 

She  was  at  the  door  in  a  moment ;  she  feared  he  had 
thought  her  self-willed  in  the  morning,  and  she  was  the 
more  bent  on  rousing  him.  She  knocked — she  opened  the 
door.  He  had  thrown  himself  into  his  arm-chair,  and  was 
bending  over  the  dreary,  smouldering,  sulky  log  and 
white  ashes,  and  his  face,  as  he  raised  his  head,  was  as  if 
the  whole  load  of  care  and  sorrow  had  suddenly  descended 
again. 

'  I  am  sorry  you  sat  up,'  was  of  course  his  beginning, 
conveying  anything  but  welcome  ;  but  she  knew  that  this 
only  meant  that  he  was  in  a  state  of  depression.  She 
took  hold  of  his  hands,  chilled  with  holding  the  reins,  told 
him  of  the  good  fire  in  the  morning  room,  and  fairly  drew 
him  up-stairs. 

There  the  lamp  burnt  brightly,  and  the  red  fire  cast  a 
merry  glow  over  the  shining  chintz  curtains,  and  the  two 
chairs  drawn  so  cosily  towards  the  fire,  the  kettle  purring 
on  the  hearth,  and  Albinia's  choice  little  bed-room  set  of 
tea-china  ready  on  the  small  table.  The  cheerfulness 
seemed  visibly  to  diffuse  itself  over  his  face,  but  he  still 
struggled  to  cherish  his  gloom,  '  Thank  you,  but  I  would 
not  have  had  you  take  all  this  trouble,  my  dear.' 

'  It  would  be  a  great  deal  more  trouble  if  you  caught 
a  bad  cold.     I  meant  you  to  sleep  at  Fairmcad.' 

1  Yes,  they  pressed  me  very  kindly,  but  1  could  not 
bear  not  to  come  home.' 


166  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

1  And  how  did  Maurice  comport  himself? ' 

c  He  talked  to  the  horse  and  then  went  to  sleep,  and 
he  was  not  at  all  shy  with  his  aunt  after  the  first,  He 
watched  the  children,  but  had  not  begun  to  play  with 
them.  Still  I  think  he  will  be  quite  happy  with  Lucy 
there,  and  I  hope  it  will  not  be  for  long.' 

It  was  a  favourable  sign  that  Mr.  Kendal  communi- 
cated all  these  particulars  without  being  plied  with  ques- 
tions, and  Albinia  went  on  with  the  more  spirit, 

1  No,  I  hope  it  may  not  be  for  long.  We  have  been 
holding  a  great  council  against  the  enemy,  and  I  do  hope 
that  we  have  really  done  something.  No,  you  need  not 
be  afraid,  I  have  not  been  there  again,  but  we  have  been 
routing  out  the  nucleus,  and  hope  we  may  starve  out  the 
fever  for  want  of  victims.  You  never  saw  such  a  swarm 
as  we  had  to  turn  out.  There  were  twenty-three  people 
to  be  considered  for.' 

1  Twenty-three !  Have  you  turned  out  the  whole 
block  1 ' 

'  No,  I  wish  we  had  ;  but  that  would  have  been 
seventy-five.  This  is  only  from  those  two  tenements 
with  one  door  ! ' 

1  Impossible ! ' 

'  I  should  have  thought  so  ;  but  the  lawful  inhabitants 
make  up  sixteen,  and  there  were  seven  lodgers.' 

Mr.  Kendal  gave  a  kind  of  groan,  and  asked  what  she 
had  done  ;  she  detailed  the  measures. 

'  Twenty-three  people  in  those  two  houses,  and  seventy- 
five  in  the  whole  block  of  building  1 ' 

'  Too  true.  And  if  you  could  only  see  the  rooms  ! 
The  windows  that  won't  open ;  the  roofs  that  open  too 
much  ;  the  dirt  on  the  staircases  ;  and,  oh  !  the  horrible 
smells  ! ' 

'  It  shall  not  go  on,'  said  Mr.  Kendal.  '  I  will  look 
over  the  place.' 

'  Not  till  the  fever  is  out  of  it,'  hastily  interposed  Al- 
binia. 

He  made  a  sign  of  assent,  and  went  on  :  '  I  will  cer- 
tainly talk  to  Pettilove,  and  have  the  place  repaired,  if  it 
be  at  my  own  expense.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  167 

Albinia  lifted  up  her  eyes,  not  understanding  at  whose 
expense  it  should  be. 

The  fact  is,'  continued  Mr.  Kendal,  '  that  there  has 
been  little  to  induce  me  to  take  interest  in  the  property. 
Old  Mr.  Meadows  was,  as  you  know,  a  successful  solicitor, 
and  purchased  these  various  town  tenements  bit  by  bit, 
and  then  settled  them  very  strictly  on  his  grandson.  He 
charged  the  property  with  life  incomes  to  his  widow  and 
daughters,  and  to  me ;  but  the  land  is  in  the  hands  of 
trustees  until  my  son's  majority,  and  Pettilove  is  the 
only  surviving  trustee.' 

The  burning  colour  mantled  in  Albinia's  face,  and  al- 
most inaudibly  she  said,  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  Edmund ; 
I  have  done  you  most  grievous  injustice.  I  thought  you 
would  not  see — ' 

'  You  did  not  think  unjustly,  my  dear.  I  ought  to  have 
paid  more  attention  to  the  state  of  affairs,  and  have  kept 
Pettilove  in  order.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  English  af- 
fairs, and  was  glad  to  be  spared  the  unpleasant  charge. 
The  consequence  of  leaving  a  man  like  that  irresponsible 
never  occurred  to  me.  His  whole  conscience  in  the  mat- 
ter is  to  have  a  large  sum  to  put  into  Gilbert's  hands 
when  he  comes  of  age.  Why,  he  upholds  those  dens  of 
iniquity  in  Tibbs's  Alley  on  that  very  ground  ! ' 

'  Poor  Gilbert !  I  am  afraid  a  large  sum  so  collected 
is  not  likely  to  do  him  much  good !  and  at  one-and- 
twenty —  !     But  that  is  one  notion  of  faithfulness  ! ' 

Albinia  was  much  happier  after  that  conversation. 
She  could  better  endure  to  regret  her  own  injustice  than 
to  believe  her  husband  the  cruel  landlord  ;  and  it  was  no 
small  advance  that  he  had  afforded  her  an  explanation 
which  once  he  would  have  deemed  beyond  the  reach  of 
female  capacity. 

In  spite  of  the  lack  of  little  Maurice's  bright  presence, 
which,  to  Albinia's  great  delight,  his  father  missed  as 
much  as  she  did,  the  period  of  quarantine  sped  by  cheer, 
fully.  Sophy  had  not  a  single  sullen  fit  the  whole  time, 
and  Albinia  having  persuaded  Mr.  Kendal  that  it  would 
be  a  sanatory  measure  to  whitewash  the  study  ceiling,  ho 
was  absolutely  forced  to  turn  out  of  it  and  live  in  the 


168  THE  YOUNG  STEP-MOTHEE. 

morning-room,  with  all  his  books  piled  up  in  the  dining- 
room.  And  on  that  great  occasion,  Albinia  abstracted 
two  fusty,  faded,  green  canvas  blinds  from  the  windows, 
carried  them  off  with  a  pair  of  tongs,  and  pushed  them 
into  a  bonfire  in  the  garden,  persuaded  they  were  the  last 
relics  of  the  old  fever.  She  had  the  laurels  cut,  the  cur- 
tains changed,  the  windows  cleaned,  and  altogether  made 
the  room  so  much  lighter,  that  when  Mr.  Kendal  again 
took  possession,  he  did  not  look  at  all  sure  whether  he 
liked  it ;  and  though  he  was  courteously  grateful,  he  did 
not  avail  himself  of  the  den  half  so  much  as  when  it  had 
more  congenial  gloom.  But  then  he  had  the  morning- 
room  as  a  resort,  and  it  was  one  of  Albinia's  bargains 
with  herself,  that  as  far  as  her  own  influence  could  pre- 
vent it,  neither  he  nor  Sophy  should  ever  render  it  a 
literal  boudoir. 

The  sense  of  snugness  that  the  small  numbers  pro- 
duced was  one  great  charm,  and  made  Mr.  Kendal  come 
unusually  far  out  of  his  shell.  His  chief  sanatory  pre- 
caution was  to  take  Albinia  out  for  a  drive  or  walk  every 
day,  and  these  expeditions  were  greatly  enjoyed. 

One  day,  after  a  visit  from  her  old  nurse,  Sophy  re- 
ceived Albinia  with  the  words, — 

'  Oh,  mamma,'  she  said,  '  old  nurse  has  been  telling 
me  such  things.  I  shall  never  be  cross  with  Aunt  Maria 
again.  It  is  such  a  sad  story,  just  like  one  in  a  book,  if 
she  was  but  that  kind  of  person.' 

,'  Aunt  Maria  !  I  remember  Mrs.  Dusautoy  once  say- 
ing she  gave  her  the  idea  of  happiness  shattered,  but — ' 

1  Did  she  %  '  exclaimed  Sophy.  '  I  never  thought 
Aunt  Maria  could  have  done  anything  but  fidget  every- 
body that  came  near  her ;  but  old  nurse  says  a  gentleman 
was  once  in  love  with  her,  and  a  very  handsome  young 
gentleman  too.  Old  Mr.  Pringle's  nephew  it  was,  a  very 
fine  young  officer  in  the  army.  I  want  you  to  ask  papa 
if  it  is  true.  Nurse  says  that  he  wrote  to  make  an  offer 
for  her,  very  handsomely,  but  grandpapa  did  not  choose 
that  both  his  daughters  should  go  quite  away ;  so  he 
locked  the  letter  up,  and  said  no,  and  never  told  her,  and 
she  thought  the  captain  had  been  trifling  and  playing  her 


THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  169 

false,  and  pined  and  fretted,  till  she  got  into  this  nervous 
way,  and  fairly  wore  herself  out,  nurse  says,  and  came  to 
be  what  she  is  now,  instead  of  the  prettiest  young  lady  in 
the  town  !  And  then,  mamma,  when  grandpapa  died, 
she  found  the  letter  in  his  papers,  and  one  inside  for  her, 
that  had  never  been  given  to  her  ;  and  by  that  time  there 
was  no  hope,  for  Captain  Pringle  had  gone  out  with  his 
regiment,  and  married  a  rich  young  lady  in  the  Indies  ! 
Oh,  mamma !  you  see  she  really  is  deserted,  and  it  is 
all  man's  treachery  that  has  broken  her  heart.  I  thought 
people  always  died  or  went  into  convents — I  don't  mean 
that  Aunt  Maria  could  have  done  that,  but  I  did  not  think 
that  way  of  hers  was  a  broken  heart ! ' 

'  If  she  has  had  such  troubles,  it  should  indeed  make 
us  try  to  be  very  forbearing  with  her,'  said  Albinia. 

'  Will  you  ask  papa  about  it  %  '  entreated  Sophy. 

*  Yes,  certainly  ;  but  you  must  not  make  sure  whether 
he  will  think  it  right  to  tell  us.  Poor  Aunt  Maria  ;  I  do 
think  some  part  of  it  must  be  true  ! ' 

'  But,  mamma,  is  that  really  like  deserted  love  1 ' 

'  My  dear,  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  deserted  love,'  said 
Albinia,  rather  amused.  '  I  suppose  troubles  of  any  kind, 
if  not — I  mean,  I  suppose,  vexations — make  people  show 
their  want  of  spirits  in  the  way  most  accordant  with  their 
natural  dispositions,  and  so  your  poor  aunt  has  grown 
querulous  and  anxious.' 

'  If  she  has  such  a  real  grand  reason  for  being  unhappy, 
I  shall  not  be  cross  about  it  now,  except — ' 

Sophy  gave  a  sigh,  and  Albinia  bade  her  good  night. 

Mr.  Kendal  had  never  heard  the  story  before,  but  he 
remembered  many  circumstances  in  corroboration.  He 
knew  that  Mr.  Pringle  had  a  nephew  in  the  army ;  he 
recollected  that  he  had  made  a  figure  in  Maria's  letters  to 
India ;  and  that  he  had  subsequently  married  a  lady  in 
the  Mauritius,  and  settled  down  on  her  father's  estate. 
He  testified  also  to  the  bright  gay  youth  of  poor  Maria, 
and  his  surprise  at  the  premature  loss  of  beauty  and 
spirits  ;  and  from  his  knowledge  of  old  Mr.  Meadows,  he 
believed  him  capable  of  such  an  act  of  domestic  tyranny. 
Maria  had  always  been  looked  upon  as  a  mere  child,  and 
8 


110  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

if  her  father  did  not  choose  to  part  with  her,  he  "would 
think  it  for  her  good,  and  his  own  peace,  for  her  not  to 
be  aware  of  the  proposal.  He  was  much  struck,  for  he 
had  not  suspected  his  sister-in-law  to  be  capable  of  such 
permanent  feeling. 

1  There  was  little  to  help  her  in  driving  it  away,'  said 
Albinia.  '  Few  occupations  or  interests,  and  very  little 
change,  to  prevent  it  from  preying  on  her  spirits.' 

1  True,'  said  Mr.  Kendal ;  '  a  narrow  education  and 
limited  sphere  are  sad  evils  in  such  cases.' 

I  Do  you  think  anything  can  be  a  cure  for  disappoint- 
ment 1 '  asked  Sophy,  in  such  a  solemn,  earnest  tone,  that 
Albinia  was  disposed  to  laugh ;  but  she  knew  that  this 
would  be  a  dire  offence,  and  was  much  surprised  that 
Sophy  had  so  far  broken  through  her  reserve,  as  to 
mingle  in  their  conversation  on  such  a  subject. 

'  Occupation,'  said  Mr.  Kendal ;  but  speaking  rather 
as  if  from  duty  than  from  conviction.  l  There  are  many 
sources  of  happiness,  even  if  shipwreck  have  been  made 
on  one  venture.  Your  aunt  had  few  resources  to  which 
to  turn  her  mind.  Every  pursuit  or  study  is  a  help 
stored  up  against  the  vacuity  which  renders  every  care 
more  corroding.' 

'  Well ! '  said  Sophy,  in  her  blunt,  downright  way,  '  I 
think  it  would  take  all  the  spirit  out  of  everything.' 

I I  hope  you  will  never  be  tried,'  said  Mr.  Kendal, 
with  a  mournful  smile,  as  if  he  did  not  choose  to  confess 
that  she  had  divined  too  rightly  the  probable  effect  of 
trouble  upon  her  own  temperament. 

'  I  suppose,'  said  Albinia,  '  that  the  real  cure  can  be 
but  one  thing  for  that,  as  for  any  other  trouble.  I  mean, 
"  Thy  will  be  done."  I  don't  suppose  anything  else 
would  give  energy  to  turn  to  other  duties.  But  it  would 
be  more  to  the  purpose  to  resolve  to  be  more  considerate 
to  poor  Maria.' 

1 1  shall  never  be  impatient  with  her  again,'  said 
Sophy. 

And  though  at  first  the  discovery  of  so  romantic  a 
cause  for  poor  Miss  Meadows's  frctfulness  dignified  it  in 
Sophy's  eyes,  yet  it  did  not  prove  sufficient  to  make  it 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  171 

tolerable  when  she  tormented  the  window-blinds,  teased 
the  fire,  was  shocked  at  Sophy's  favourite  studies,  or  in- 
sisting on  her  wishing  to  see  Maria  Drury.  Nay,  the 
bathos  often  rendered  her  petty  unconscious  provocations 
the  more  harassing  ;  and  Sophy  often  felt,  in  an  agony  of 
self-reproach,  that  she  ought  to  have  known  herself  too 
well  to  expect  to  show  forbearance  with  any  one  when 
she  was  under  the  iuiluence  of  ill-temper. 

In  Easter  week  Mr.  Ferrars  brought  Lucy  and  Maur- 
ice home,  and  Gilbert  came  for  a  short  holiday. 

Gilbert  was  pleased  when  he  was  called  to  go  over 
the  empty  houses  with  his  father,  Mr.  Ferrars,  and  a 
mason. 

Back  they  came,  horrified  at  the  dreadful  disrepair,  at 
the  narrow  area  into  which  such  numbers  were  crowded, 
and  still  more  at  the  ill  odours  which  Mr.  Ferrars  and 
the  mason  had  gallantly  investigated,  till  they  detected 
the  absence  of  drains,  as  well  as  convinced  themselves 
that  mending  roofs,  floors,  or  windows,  would  be  a  mere 
mockery  unless  the  whole  were  pulled  down. 

Mr.  Ferrars  was  more  than  ever  thankful  to  be  a 
country  parson,  and  mused  on  the  retribution  that  the 
miasma,  fostered  by  the  avarice  of  the  grandfather  and 
the  neglect  of  the  father  had  brought  on  the  family. 
Dives  cannot  always  scorn  Lazarus  without  suffering 
even  in  this  life. 

Gilbert,  in  the  glory  of  castle-building,  was  talking 
eagerly  of  the  thorough  renovation  that  should  take 
place,  the  sweep  that  should  be  made  of  all  the  old  tene- 
ments, and  the  wide  healthy  streets  and  model  cottages 
that  should  give  a  new  aspect  to  the  town. 

Mr.  Kendal  prepared  for  the  encounter  with  Petti- 
love,  and  his  son  begged  to  go  with  him,  to  which  he 
consented,  saying  that  it  was  time  Gilbert  should  have  an 
opinion  in  a  matter  that  affected  him  so  nearly. 

Gilbert's  opinion  of  the  interview  was  thus  announced 
on  his  return  :  <  If  there  ever  was  a  brute  in  the  world,  it 
is  that  Pettilove  ! ' 

'  Then  he  won't  consent  to  do  anything  1 ' 

1  No,  indeed  !     Say  what  my  father  or  I  would  to 


172  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

him,  it  was  all  of  not  the  slightest  use.  He  smiled,  and 
made  little  intolerable  nods,  and  regretted — but  there 
were  the  settlements,  and  his  late  lamented  partner  !  A 
parcel  of  stuff.  Not  so  much  as  a  broken  window  will 
he  mend  !     He  says  he  is  not  authorized  ! ' 

1  Quite  true,'  said  Mr.  Kendal.  '  The  man  is  war- 
ranted in  his  proceedings,  and  thinks  them  his  duty, 
though  I  believe  he  has  a  satisfaction  in  the  power  of 
thwarting  me.' 

'  I'm  sure  he  has  ! '  cried  Gilbert.  '  I  am  sure  there 
was  spite  in  his  grin  when  he  pulled  out  that  horrid  old 
parchment,  with  the  lines  a  yard  long,  and  read  us  out 
the  abominable  old  crabbed  writing,  all  about  the  houses, 
messuages,  and  tenements  thereupon,  and  a  lot  of  lawyer's 
jargon.  I'm  sure  I  thought  it  was  left  to  Peter  Pettilove 
himself.  And  when  I  came  to  understand  it,  one  would 
have  thought  it  took  my  father  to  be  the  worst  enemy 
we  had  in  the  world,  bent  on  cheating  us  ! ' 

'That  is  the  assumption  on  which  settlements  are 
drawn  up,  Gilbert,'  said  his  father. 

'  Can  nothing  be  done,  then  ? '  said  Albinia. 

'  Thus  much,'  said  Mr.  Kendal.  '  Pettilove  will  not 
object  to  our  putting  the  houses  somewhat  in  repair,  as, 
in  fact,  that  will  be  making  a  present  to  Gilbert ;  but  he 
will  not  spend  a  farthing  on  them  of  the  trust,  except  to 
hinder  their  absolute  falling,  nor  will  he  make  any  regu- 
lation on  the  number  of  lodgers.  As  to  taking  them 
down,  that  is,  as  I  always  supposed,  out  of  the  question, 
though  I  think  the  trustees  might  have  stretched  a  point, 
being  certain  of  both  my  wishes  and  Gilbert's.' 

1  Don't  you  think,'  said  Mr.  Ferrars,  looking  up  from 
his  book,  '  that  a  sanatory  commission  might  be  got  to 
over-ride  Gilbert's  guardian  1 ' 

1  My  guardian !  do  not  call  him  so  ! '  muttered  Gil- 
bert. 

'  I  am  afraid,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  '  that  unless  your 
commission  consisted  of  Albinia  and  Dusautoy  they 
would  have  little  perception  of  the  evils.  Our  local  au- 
thorities are  obtuse  in  such  matters.' 

1  Agitate !  agitate  ! '  murmured  Mr.  Ferrars,  going  on 
with  his  book. 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  1*73 

*  Well,'  said  Albinia,  '  at  least  there  is  one  beer-shop 
less  in  Tibbs's  Alley.  And  if  there  are  tolerable  seasons, 
I  daresay  paint,  whitewash,  and  windows  to  open,  may 
keep  the  place  moderately  wholesome  till — Are  you  six- 
teen yet,  Gilbert1?     Five  years.' 

'  Yes,  and  then — ' 

Gilbert  came  and  sat  down  beside  her,  and  they  built 
a  scheme  for  the  almshouses  so  much  wanted.  Gilbert  was 
sure  the  accumulation  would  easily  cover  the  expense,  and 
Albinia  had  many  an  old  woman,  who  it  was  hoped  might 
live  to  enjoy  the  intended  paradise  there. 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  promise,'  cried  Gilbert,  warming  with  the 
subject ;  '  the  first  thing  I  shall  do — ' 

1  No,  don't  promise,'  said  Albinia.  '  Do  it  from  your 
heart,  or  not  at  all.' 

'Xo,  don't  promise,  Gilbert/  said  Sophy. 

'  Why  not,  Sophy  1 '  he  said  good-humouredly. 

*  Because  you  are  just  what  you  feel  at  the  moment,' 
said  Sophy. 

1  You  don't  think  I  should  keep  it  ? ' 

'No.' 

The  grave  answer  fell  like  lead,  and  Albinia  told  her 
she  was  not  kind  or  just  to  her  brother.  But  she  still 
looked  steadily  at  him,  and  answered,  '  I  cannot  help  it. 
What  is  truth,  is  truth,  and  Gilbert  cares  only  for  what  he 
sees  at  the  moment.' 

'  What  is  truth  need  not  always  be  fully  uttered,'  said 
Albinia.     '  I  hope  you  may  find  it  untrue.' 

But  Sophy's  words  would  recur,  and  weigh  on  her 
painfully. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


The  summer  had  just  begun,  when  notice  was  given 
that  a  Confirmation  would  take  place  in  the  autumn  ;  and 
Lucy's  name  was  one  of  the  first  sent  in  to  Mr.  Dusautoy. 
His  plan  was  to  collect  his  candidates  in  weekly  classes  of 


174  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

a  few  at  a  time,  and  likewise  to  see  as  much  as  lie  could 
of  them  in  private. 

'  Oh  !  mamma  ! '  exclaimed  Lucy,  returning  from  her 
first  class,  'Mr.  Dusautoy  has  given  us  each  a  paper, 
where  we  are  to  set  down  our  christening  days,  and  our 
godfathers  and  godmothers.  And  only  think,  I  had  not 
the  least  notion  when  I  was  christened.  I  could  tell 
nothing  but  that  Mr.  Wenlock  was  my  godfather!  It 
made  me  feel  quite  foolish  not  to  know  my  godmothers.' 

'  We  were  in  no  situation  to  have  things  done  in  order,' 
said  Mr.  Kendal,  gravely.  '  If  I  recollect  rightly,  one  of 
your  godmothers  was  Captain  Lee's  pretty  young  wife,  who 
died  a  few  weeks  after.' 

i  And  the  other  ?  '  said  Lucy. 

1  Your  mother,  I  believe,'  he  said. 

Lucy  employed  herself  in  filling  up  her  paper,  and  ex- 
claimed, '  Now  I  do  not  know  the  date !  Can  you  tell 
me  that,  papa  ? ' 

'  It  was  the  Christmas-clay  next  after  your  birth,'  he 
said.  '  I  remember  that,  for  we  took  you  to  spend  Christ- 
mas at  the  nearest  station  of  troops,  and  the  chaplain 
christened  you.' 

Lucy  wrote  down  the  particulars,  and  exclaimed, 
1  What  an  old  baby  I  must  have  been  !  Six  months  old ! 
And  I  wonder  when  Sophy  was  christened.  I  never  knew 
who  any  of  her  godfathers  and  godmothers  were.  Did 
you,  Sophy?' 

i  No — '  she  was  looking  up  at  her  father. 

A  sudden  flush  of  colour  came  over  his  face,  and  he 
left  the  room  in  haste. 

'Why,  Sophy!'  exclaimed  Lucy,  'one  would  think 
3tou  had  not  been  christened  at  all ! ' 

Even  the  light  Lucy  was  alarmed  at  the  sound  of  her 
own  words.  The  same  idea  had  thrilled  across  Albinia  ; 
but  on  turning  her  eyes  on  Sophy,  she  saw  a  countenance 
flushed,  anxious,  but  full  rather  of  trembling  hope  than 
of  dismay. 

In  a  few  seconds  Mr.  Kendal  came  back  with  a  thick 
red  pocket-book  in  his  hand,  and  produced  the  certificate 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  175 

of  the  private  baptism  of  Sophia,  daughter  of  Edmund 
and  Lucy  Kendal,  at  Talloon,  March  17th,  1838. 

Sophy's  face  had  more  disappointment  in  it  than  satis- 
faction. 

1 1  can  explain  the  circumstances  to  you  now,'  said  her 
father.  '  At  Talloon  we  were  almost  out  of  reach  of  any 
chaplains,  and,  as  you  know,  were  almost  the  only  Eng- 
lish. We  always  intended  to  take  you  to  the  nearest 
station,  as  had  been  done  with  Lucy,  but  your  dear 
mother  was  never  well  enough  to  bear  the  journey  ;  and 
when  our  next  little  one  was  born,  it  was  so  plain  that  he 
could  not  live,  that  I  sent  in  haste  to  beg  that  the  chap- 
lain would  come  to  us.  It  was  then  that  you  were  both 
baptized,  and  before  the  week  was  over,  he  buried  little 
Henry.  It  was  the  first  of  our  troubles.  We  never  again 
had  health  or  spirits  for  any  festive  occasion  while  we  con- 
tinued in  India,  and  thus  the  ceremony  was  never  com- 
pleted. In  fact,  I  take  shame  to  myself  for  having  en- 
tirely forgotten  that  you  had  never  been  received  into  the 
congregation.' 

'  Then  I  have  told  a  falsehood  whenever  I  said  the 
Catechism  ! '  burst  out  Sophy.  Lucy  would  have  laughed, 
and  Albinia  could  almost  have  been  amused  at  the  turn 
her  displeasure  had  taken. 

*  It  was  not  your  fault,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  quietly. 

He  evidently  wished  the  subject  to  be  at  an  end,  ex- 
cepting that  in  silence  he  laid  before  Albinia's  eyes  the 
certificate  of  the  baptism  of  the  twin-brothers,  not  long 
after  the  first  arrival  in  India.  He  then  put  the  book  in 
his  pocket,  and  began,  as  usual,  to  read  aloud. 

■  Oh,  don't  go,  mamma,'  said  Sophy,  when  she  had 
been  carried  to  her  own  room  at  bed- time,  and  made  ready 
for  the  night. 

Albinia  was  only  too  glad  to  linger,  in  the  hope  to  be 
admitted  into  some  of  the  recesses  of  that  untransparent 
nature,  and  by  way  of  assistance,  said,  '  I  was  not  at  all 
prepared  for  this  discovery.' 

Sophy  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  said,  '  If  I  had  never 
been  christened,  I  should  have  thought  there  was  some 
hope  for  me.' 


1*76  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

I  That  would  have  been  too  dreadful.  How  could  you 
imagine  your  papa  capable — ? ' 

I I  thought  I  had  found  out  why  I  am  so  horrid  !  '  ex- 
claimed Sophy.  '  Oh,  if  I  could  only  make  a  fresh  begin- 
ning !     Mamma,  do  pray  give  me  a  Prayer  Book.' 

Albinia  gave  it  to  her,  and  she  nastily  turned  the 
pages  to  the  Order  for  Private  Baptism. 

1  At  least  I  have  not  made  the  promises  and  vows !  * 
she  said,  as  if  her  stern  conscientiousness  obtained  some 
relief. 

*  Not  formally  made  them,'  said  Albinia ;  *  but  you 
cannot  have  a  right  to  the  baptismal  blessings,  except  on 
those  conditions.' 

*  Mamma,  then  I  never  had  the  sign  of  the  cross  on 
my  forehead  !  It  does  not  feel  blest ! '  And  then,  hastily 
and  low,  she  muttered,  *  Oh !  is  that  why  I  never  could 
bear  the  cross  in  all  my  life  ? ' 

'  Nay,  my  poor  Sophy,  you  must  not  think  of  it  like  a 
spell.  Many  bear  the  cross  no  better,  who  have  had  it 
marked  on  their  brows.' 

'  Can  it  be  done  now  ? '  cried  Sophy,  eagerly. 

*  Certainly  ;  I  think  it  ought  to  be  done.  We  will  see 
what  your  father  says.' 

'  Oh,  mamma,  beg  him,  pray  him  ! '  exclaimed  Sophy. 
*  I  know  it  will  make  me  begin  to  be  good  !  I  can't  bear 
not  to  be  one  of  those  marked  and  sealed.  Oh !  and, 
mamma,  you  will  be  my  godmother?  Can't  you?  If  the 
gleams  of  goodness  and  brightness  do  find  me  out,  they 
are  always  from  you.' 

<  I  think  I  might  be,  dear  child,'  said  Albinia ;  '  but 
Mr.  Dusautoy  must  tell  us  whether  I  may.  But,  indeed, 
I  am  afraid  to  see  you  reckon  too  much  on  this.  The  es- 
sential, the  regenerating  grace,  is  yours  already,  and  can 
save  you  from  yourself ;  and  Confirmation  adds  the  rest — 
but  you  must  not  think  of  any  of  these  like  a  charm, 
which  will  save  you  all  further  trouble  with  yourself.  They 
do  not  kill  the  faults,  but  they  enable  you  to  deal  with 
them.  Even  baptism  itself,  you  know,  has  destroyed  the 
guilt  of  past  sin,  but  does  not  hinder  subsequent  tempta- 
tion.' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-3IOTHEK.  177 

Albinia  hardly  knew  how  far  Sophy  attended  to  this 
caution,  for  all  she  said  was  to  reiterate  the  entreaty  that 
the  omitted  ceremony  might  be  supplied. 

Mr.  Kendal  gave  a  ready  consent,  as  soon  as  he  was 
told  that  Sophy  so  ardently  wished  for  it — so  willing,  in- 
deed, that  Albinia  was  surprised,  until  he  went  on  to  say, 
1  Xo  one  need  be  aware  of  the  matter  beyond  ourselves. 
Your  brother  and  sister  would,  I  have  no  doubt,  act  as 
sponsors.  Nay,  if  Ferrars  would  officiate,  we  need  hardly 
mention  it  even  to  Dusautoy.  It  could  take  place  in  your 
sitting-room.' 

I  But,  Edmund  ! '  began  Albinia,  aghast,  '  would  that 
be  the  right  thing?  I  hardly  think  Maurice  would  con- 
sent.' 

'  You  are  not  imagining  anything  so  preposterous  or 
inexpedient  as  to  wish  to  bring  Sophia  forward  in  church,' 
said  Mr.  Kendal ;  '  even  if  she  were  physically  capable  of 
it,  I  should  not  choose  to  expose  her  to  anything  so  pain- 
ful or  undesirable.' 

'  I  am  afraid,  then,'  said  Albinia,  '  that  it  will  not  be 
done  at  all.  It  is  not  receiving  her  into  the  congregation 
to  have  this  service  read  before  half-a-dozen  people  in  my 
sitting-room.' 

'  Better  not  have  it  done  at  all,  then,'  said  Mr.  Ken- 
dal. '  It  is  not  essential.  I  will  not  have  her  made  a 
spectacle.' 

'Will  you  only  consult  Mr.  Dusautoy ? ' 

I I  do  not  wrish  Mr.  Dusautoy  to  interfere  in  my  family 
regulations.  I  mean,  that  I  have  a  great  respect  for  him  ; 
but  as  a  clergyman,  and  one  wedded  to  form,  he  would 
not  take  into  account  the  great  evil  of  making  a  public 
display,  and  attracting  attention  to  a  girl  of  her  age,  sta- 
tion, and  disposition.  And,  in  fact,'  added  Mr.  Kendal, 
with  the  same  scrupulous  candour  as  his  daughter  always 
showed,  '  for  the  sake  of  my  own  position,  and  the  effect 
of  example,  I  should  not  wish  this  unfortunate  omission  to 
be  known.' 

'  I  suspect,'  said  Albinia,  '  that  the  example  of  repair- 
ing it  would  speak  volumes  of  good.' 

'  It  is  mere  absurdity  to  speak  of  it!'  said  Mr.  Ken- 


178  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

dal.  *  The  poor  child  is  not  to  leave  her  couch  yet  for 
weeks.' 

Sophy  was  told  in  the  morning  that  the  question  was 
under  consideration,  and  Lucy  was  strictly  forbidden  to 
mention  the  subject. 

When  next  Mr.  Kendal  came  to  read  with  Sophy,  she 
said  imploringly,  '  Papa,  have  you  thought  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  '  I  have  done  so ;  but  your  mamma 
thinks,  and,  on  examination  of  the  subject,  I  perceive  she 
is  right,  that  the  service  has  no  meaning  unless  it  take 
place  in  the  church.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Sophy ;  '  but  you  know  I  am  to  be  allowed 
to  go  about  in  July.' 

'  You  will  hardly  be  equal  to  any  fatigue  even  then, 

I  fear,  my  dear ;  and  you  would  find  this  publicity  ex- 
tremely trying  and  unpleasant.' 

'  It  would  not  last  ten  minutes,'  said  Sophy,  *  and  I 
am  sure  I  should  not  care  !  I  should  have  something  else 
to  think  about.  Oh  !  papa,  when  my  forehead  aches  with 
surliness,  it  does  feel  so  unblessed,  so  uncrossed  ! '  and 
she  put  her  hand  over  it ;  '  and  all  the  books  and  hymns 
seem  not  to  belong  to  me.  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to 
keep  off  the  tempers  when  I  have  a  right  in  the  cross.' 

*  Ah  !  my  child,  I  am  afraid  the  tempers  are  a  part 
of  your  physical  constitution,'  he  returned,  mournfully. 

1  You  mean  that  I  am  like  you,  papa,'  said  Sophy. 

I I  think  I  might  at  least  learn  to  be  really  like  you,  and 
if  I  must  feel  miserable,  not  to  be  unkind  and  sulky ! 
And  then  I  should  leave  off  even  the  being  unhappy 
about  nothing.' 

Her  eyes  brightened,  but  her  father  shook  his  head 
sadly,  and  said,  '  You  would  not  be  like  me,  my  dear,  if 
depression  never  made  you  selfish.  But,'  he  added,  with 
an  effort,  '  you  will  not  suffer  so  much  from  low  spirits 
when  you  are  in  better  health,  and  able  to  move  about.' 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  exclaimed  Sophy  ;  '  I  often  feel  so  sick  of 
lying  here,  that  I  feel  as  if  I  never  could  be  sulky  if  only 
I  might*  walk  about,  and  go  from  one  room  to  another 
when  I  please  !  But,  papa,  you  will  let  me  be  admitted 
into  the  church  when  I  am  able,  will  you  not  ? ' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  179 

'  It  shall  be  well  weighed,  Sophy.' 

Sophy  knew  her  father  too  well,  and  had  too  much 
reticence  to  say  any  more.  He  was  certainly  meditating 
deeply,  and  reading  too ;  indeed  he  would  almost  have 
appeared  to  have  a  fit  of  the  study,  but  for  little  Maurice, 
a  tyrannical  little  gentleman,,  who  domineered  over  the 
entire  household,  and  would  have  been  grievously  spoilt, 
if  his  mother  had  not  taken  all  the  crossing  the  stout  lit- 
tle will  upon  herself.  He  had  a  gallant  pair  of  legs,  and 
the  disposition  of  a  young  Centaur  ;  he  seemed  to  divide 
the  world  into  things  that  could  be  ridden  on,  and  that 
could  not ;  and  when  he  bounced  at  the  study  door,  with 
'  Papa !  gee !  gee ! '  and  lifted  up  his  round,  rosy  face, 
and  despotic  blue  eyes,  Mr.  Kendal's  foot  was  at  his  ser- 
vice, and  the  study  was  brown  no  longer. 

The  result  of  Mr.  Kendal's  meditations  was  an  invita- 
tion to  his  wife  to  drive  with  him  to  Fairmead. 

That  was  a  most  enjoyable  drive ;  the  weather  too 
hot  and  sunny,  perhaps,  for  Albinia's  preferences,  but 
thoroughly  penetrating,  and  giving  energy  to  her  East- 
Indian  husband,  and  making  the  whole  country  radiant 
with  sunny  beauty — the  waving  hay-fields  falling  before 
the  mower's  scythe,  the  ranks  of  hay-makers  tossing  the 
fragrant  grass,  the  growing  corn  softly  waving  in  the 
summer  breeze,  the  river  blue  with  reflected  sky,  the 
hedges  glowing  with  stately  fox-gloves,  or  with  blushing 
wreaths  of  eglantine.  And  how  cool,  fresh,  and  fair,  was 
the  beech-avenue  at  Fairmead. 

Yet  though  Albinia  came  to  it  with  the  fond  tender- 
ness of  old  association,  it  was  not  with  the  regretful  cling- 
ing of  the  first  visit,  when  it  seemed  to  her  the  natural 
home  to  which  she  still  really  belonged.  Nor  had  she 
the  least  thought  about  producing  an  impression  of  her 
own  happiness,  and  scarcely  any  whether  '  Edmund ' 
would  be  amused  and  at  ease,  though  knowing  he  had  a 
stranger  to  encounter  in  the  person  of  Winifed's  sister, 
Mary  Reid. 

That  was  not  a  long  day.  It  was  only  too  short, 
though  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal  stayed  three  hours  longer 
than  on  the  last  occasion.     Mr.  Kendal  faced  Mary  Reid 


180  THE    YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK. 

without  flinching,  and  she,  having  been  previously  in- 
formed that  Albinia' s  husband  was  the  most  silent  and 
shy  man  in  existence,  began  to  doubt  her  sister's  veracity. 
And  Albinia,  instead  of  dealing  out  a  shower  of  fireworks, 
to  hide  what,  if  not  gloom,  was  at  least  twilight,  was  now 
1  temperately  bright,'  talking  naturally  of  what  jnost  con- 
cerned her  with  the  sprightliness  of  her  happy  temper, 
but  without  effort ;  and  gratifying  Winifred  by  a  great 
deal  more  notice  of  the  new  niece  and  namesake  than  she 
had  ever  bestowed  on  either  of  her  predecessors  in  their 
infant  days.  Moreover,  Lucy's  two  long  visits  had  made 
Mrs.  Ferrars  feel  a  strong  interest  in  her,  and,  with  a 
sort  of  maternal  affection,  she  inquired  after  the  cuttings 
of  the  myrtle  which  she  had  given  her. 

'  Ah  ! '  said  Albinia,  '  I  never  honoured  gardening  so 
much.' 

'  I  know  you  would  never  respect  it  in  me.' 

i  As  you  know,.  I  love  a  walk  with  an  object,  and 
never  could  abide  breaking  my  back,  pottering  over  a 
pink  with  a  stem  that  won't  support  it,  and  a  calyx  that 
won't  hold  it.' 

'  And  Lucy  converted  you  when  I  could  not ! ' 

1  If  you  had  known  my  longing  for  some  wTholesome 
occupation  for  her,  such  as  could  hurt  neither  herself  nor 
any  one  else,  and  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  engrossed  by 
anything  innocent,  making  it  so  easy  to  gratify  her. 
Why,  a  new  geranium  is  a  constant  fund  of  ecstasy,  and 
I  do  not  believe  she  was  ever  so  grateful  to  her  father  in 
her  life  as  when  he  gave  her  a  forcing-frame.  Anything 
is  a  blessing  that  makes  people  contented  at  home,  and 
takes  them  out  of  themselves.' 

'  Lucy  is  a  very  nice,  pleasant  inmate ;  her  ready 
obligingness  and  facility  of  adapting  herself  make  her 
very  agreeable.' 

1  Yes,'  said  Albinia, '  she  is  the  "  very  woman,"  taking 
her  complexion  from  things  around,  and  so  she  will  go 
smoothly  through  the  world,  and  be  always  preferred  to 
my  poor  turbid,  deep-souled  Sophy.' 

*  Are  you  going  to  be  very  angry  with  me  ? ' 

*  Ah  !  you  do  not  know  Sophy  !     Poor,  dear  child ! 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  181 

I  do  so  long  that  she  could  have — if  it  were  but  one  day, 
one  hour,  of  real,  free,  glowing  happiness  !  I  think  it 
would  sweeten  and  open  her  heart  wonderfully  just  to 
have  known  it !  If  I  could  but  see  any*  chance  of  it,  but  I 
am  afraid  her  health  will  always  be  against  her  ;  and  oh  ! 
that  dreadful  sense  of  depression  !  Do  you  know,  Win- 
ifred, I  do  think  love  would  be  the  best  chance.  Now, 
don't  laugh ;  I  do  assure  you  there  is  no  reason  Sophy 
should  not  be  very  handsome.' 

1  Quite  as  handsome  as  the  owl's  children,  my  dear.' 

1  Well,  the  owls  are  the  only  young  birds  fit  to  be 
seen.  But  I  tell  you,  Sophy's  profile  is  as  regular  as  her 
father's,  and  animation  makes  her  eyes  beautiful,  and  she 
has  grown  immensely  since  she  has  been  lying  down,  so 
that  she  will  come  out  without  that  disproportioned  look. 
If  her  eyebrows  were  rather  less  marked,  and  her  com- 
plexion— but  that  will  clear.' 

1  Yes,  we  will  make  her  a  beauty  when  we  are 
about  it.' 

1  And,  after  all,  affection  is  the  great  charm,  and  if 
she  were  attached,  it  would  be  so  intensely — and  happi- 
ness would  develope  so  much  that  is  glorious,  only  hid- 
den down  so  deep.' 

'  I  hope  you  may  find  her  a  male  Albinia,'  said  Win- 
ifred, a  little  wickedly  ;  '  but  take  care.  It  might  be  kill 
or  cure ;  and  I  fancy  when  sunshine  is  attracted  by 
shadow,  it  is  more  often  as  it  was  in  your  case  than  "  vice 
versa,:' ' 

'  Take  care  ! '  repeated  Albinia,  affronted.  '  You  don't 
fancy  I  am  going  beyond  a  vague  wish,  do  you  % ' 

'  And  rather  a  premature  one.     How  old  is  Sophy  1 ' 

'  Towards  fourteen,  but  years  older  in  thought  and  in 
suffering.' 

Albinia  did  not  hear  the  result  of  the  conference  with 
her  brother  till  she  had  resumed  her  seat  in  the  carriage, 
after  having  been  surprised  by  Mr.  Kendal  handing  in 
three  tall  theological  tomes.  They  both  had  much  to 
think  over  as  they  drove  home  in  the  lengthening  shad- 
ows. Albinia  was  greatly  concerned  that  Winifred's 
health  had  become  affected,  and  that  her  ordinary  home 


1815  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

duties  were  beyond  her  strength.  Albinia  had  formerly 
thought  Fairmead  parsonage  did  not  give  her  enough  to 
do,  but  now  she  saw  the  gap  that  she  had  left ;  and  she 
had  fallen  into  a  maze  of  musings  over  schemes  for  help- 
ing Winifred,  before  Mr.  Kendal  spoke,  telling  her  that 
he  had  resolved  that  Sophia's  admission  into  the  church 
should  take  place  as  soon  as  she  was  equal  to  the  exer- 
tion. 

Albinia  asked  if  she  should  speak  to  Mr.  Dusautoy, 
but  the  manliness  of  Mr.  Kendal's  character  revolted 
from  putting  off  a  confession  upon  his  wife ;  so  he  went 
to  church  the  next  morning,  and  saw  the  vicar  after- 
wards. 

Mr.  Dusautoy 's  first  thought  was  gratitude  for  the 
effort  that  the  resolution  must  have  cost  both  Mr.  Kendal 
and  his  daughter  ;  his  next,  how  to  make  the  occasion  as 
little  trying  to  their  feelings  as  was  consistent  with  his 
duty  and  theirs.  He  saw  Sophy,  and  tried  to  draw  her 
out,  but,  though  far  from  sullen,  she  did  not  reply  freely. 
However,  he  was  satisfied,  and  he  wished  her,  likewise, 
to  consider  herself  under  preparation  for  Confirmation  in 
the  autumn.  She  did  all  that  he  wished  quietly  and  ear- 
nestly, but  without  much  remark,  her  confidence  only 
came  forth  when  her  feelings  were  strongly  stirred  ;  and 
it  was  remarkable  that  throughout  this  time  of  prepara- 
tion there  was  not  the  remotest  shadow  of  ill-temper. 

Mr.  Kendal  insisted  that  her  London  doctor  should 
come  to  see  her  at  the  year's  end.  The  improvement 
had  not  been  all  that  had  been  hoped,  but  it  was  decided 
that  though  several  hours  of  each  day  must  still  be  spent 
on  her  back,  she  might  move  about,  join  the  meals,  and 
do  whatever  she  could  without  over-fatigue.  It  seemed  a 
great  release,  but  it  was  a  shock  to  find  how  very  little 
she  could  do  at  first,  now  that  she  had  lost  the  habit  of  ex- 
ertion, and  of  disregard  of  her  discomforts.  She  had  quite 
shot  up  to  more  than  the  ordinary  woman's  height,  and 
was  much  taller  than  her  sister — but  this  hardly  gave  the 
advantage  Albinia  had  hoped,  for  she  had  a  weak,  over- 
grown look,  and  could  not  help  stooping.  A  number  of 
people  in  a  room,  or  even  the  sitting  upright  during  a 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER,  183 

morning  call,  seemed  quite  to  overcome  and  exhaust  her : 
but  still  the  return  to  ordinary  life  was  such  great  enjoy- 
ment, that  she  endured  all  with  good-temper. 

But  now  the  church-going  was  possible,  a  fit  of  exceed- 
ing dread  came  upon  her.  Albinia  found  her  with  the 
tears  silently  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  almost  as  if  she 
were  unconscious  of  them. 

'  Oh,  mamma,  I  can  never  do  it !  I  know  what  I  am. 
I  can't  let  them  say  I  will  keep  all  the  commandments 
always  !     It  will  not  be  true  ! ' 

'  It  will  be  true  that  you  have  the  steadfast  purpose, 
my  dear.' 

'  How  can  it  be  steadfast  when  I  know  I  can't  ? ' 

It  was  the  old  story,  and  all  had  to  be  argued  through 
again — how  the  obligation  was  already  incurred  at  her 
baptism,  and  how  it  was  needful  that  she  should  be  sworn 
to  her  own  side  of  the  great  covenant — how  the  power 
would  be  given,  and  the  grace  supplied,  but  that  the  will 
and  purpose  to  obey  was  required — and  then  Sophy  re- 
curred to  that  blessing  of  the  cross  for  which  she  longed 
so  earnestly,  and  which  again  Albinia  feared  she  was  re- 
garding in  the  light  of  a  talisman. 

Mr.  Ferrars  was  to  be  her  godfather.  Mr.  Kendal 
had  wished  Aunt  Winifred,  as  Lucy  called  her,  to  be  the 
godmother,  but  Sophy  had  begged  earnestly  for  Mrs. 
Dusautoy,  whose  kindness  had  made  a  great  impression. 

There  was  not  much  liking  between  Mrs.  Ferrars  and 
Sophy.  Perhaps  Sophy  had  been  fretted  and  angered  by 
her  quick,  decided  ways,  and  rather  disgusted  by  the  en- 
thusiasm of  her  brother  and  sister  about  Fairmead  ;  and 
she  was  not  gratified  by  hearing  that  Winifred  was  to 
accompany  her  husband  in  order  to  try  the  experiment 
of  a  short  absence  from  cares  and  children. 

Albinia,  on  the  contrary,  was  highly  pleased  to  have 
Winifred  to  nurse,  and  desirous  of  "showing  off*  Sophy's 
reformation. 

Winifred  arrived  late  in  the  day  with  an  invalid  look, 
and  a  great  inclination  to  pine  for  her  baby.  She  was  so 
much  tired,  that  Albinia  took  her  up-stairs  very  soon,  and 


184  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

put  her  to  bed,  sitting  with  her  almost  all  the  evening, 
hoping  that  down-stairs  all  was  going  on  well. 

The  next  morning,  too,  went  off  very  well.  Mr.  Fer- 
rars  sought  a  private  talk  with  his  old  godchild,  and 
though  Sophy  scarcely  answered,  she  liked  his  kind,  frank, 
affectionate  manner,  and  showed  such  feeling  as  he  wished, 
so  that  he  fully  credited  all  that  his  sister  thought  of  her. 

Otherwise,  Sophy  was  kept  quiet,  to  save  her  strength 
and  collect  her  thoughts. 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  there  was  not  a  for- 
midable congregation.  Miss  Meadows,  who  had  been  in- 
formed as  late  as  could  save  offence,  had  treated  it  as  a 
freak  of  Mrs.  Kendal,  resented  the  injunction  of  secrecy 
and  would  neither  be  present  herself,  nor  let  her  mother 
come  out.  Genevieve,  three  old  men,  and  a  child  or  two, 
were  the  whole  number  present.  The  daily  service  at 
Bayford  was  an  offering  made  in  faith  by  the  vicar,  for  as 
yet  there  was  very  little  attendance.  '  But,'  said  Mr. 
Dusautoy,  '  it  is  the  worship  of  God,  not  an  entertain- 
ment to  please  man — it  is  all  nonsense  to  talk  of  its  an- 
swering or  not  answering.' 

Mr.  Kendal  was  in  a  state  of  far  greater  suffering  from 
shame  than  his  daughter,  as  indeed  he  deserved,  but  he 
endured  it  with  a  gallant,  almost  touching  resignation. 
He  was  the  only  witness  of  her  baptism,  and  it  seemed 
like  a  confession,  when  he  had  to  reply  to  the  questions, 
by  whom,  and  with  what  words  this  child  had  been  bap- 
tized, when  she  stood  beside  him  overtopping  her  little 
godmother.  She  stood  with  tightly-locked  hands,  and 
ebbing  colour,  which  came  back  in  a  flood  when  Mr.  Du- 
sautoy took  her  by  the  hand,  and  said, '  We  receive  this 
child  into  the  congregation ; '  and  when  he  traced  the 
cross  on  her  brow,  she  stood  tremblingly,  her  lips 
squeezed  close  together,  and  after  she  returned  to  her 
place  no  one  saw  her  face. 

Albinia,  with  her  brother  and  Lucy,  were  at  home  by 
the  short  cut  before  the  carriage  could  return.  She  met 
Sophy  at  the  hall-door,  kissed  her,  and  said,  '  Now,  my 
dear,  you  had  better  lie  down,  and  be  quite  quiet ; '  then 
followed  Winifred  into  the  drawing-room,  and  took  her 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  185 

shawl  and  bonnet  from  her,  lingering  for  a  happy  twilight 
conversation.  Lucy  came  down,  and  went  to  water  her 
flowers,  and  by-and-by  tea  was  brought,  the  gentlemen 
came  in  from  their  walk,  and  Mr.  Kendal  asked  whether 
Sophy  was  tired.  Albinia  went  up  to  see.  She  found 
her  on  her  couch  in  the  morning  room,  and  told  her  that 
tea  was  ready.  There  was  something  not  promising  in 
the  voice  that  replied ;  and  she  said, 

*  No,  don't  move,  my  dear,  I  will  bring  it  to  you ; 
you  are  tired.' 

*  No — I'll  go  down,  thank  you.'    It  was  the  gruff  voice  ! 
'  Indeed,  you  had  much  better  not,  my  dear.     It  is 

only  an  hour  to  bed-time,  and  you  would  only  tire  your- 
self for  nothing.' 

<  I'll  go.' 

1  You  are  tired,  Sophy,'  said  her  father.  '  You  had 
better  lie  down  while  you  have  your  tea.' 

'  No,  thank  you,'  growled  Sophy,  as  though  hurt  by 
being  told  to  lie  down  before  company. 

Her  father  put  a  sofa-cushion  behind  her,  but  though 
she  mumbled  some  acknowledgment,  it  was  so  surly,  that 
Mrs.  Ferrars  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  she  would  not 
lean  back  until  fatigue  gained  the  ascendancy.  Mr.  Ken- 
dal asking  her,  got  little  in  reply  but  such  a  grunt,  that 
Mrs.  Ferrars  longed  to  shake  her ;  but  her  father  fetched 
a  footstool,  and  put  it  under  her  feet,  and  grew  a  little  ab- 
stracted in  his  talk,  as  if  watching  her,  and  his  eye  had 
something  of  the  old  habitual  melancholy. 

So  it  went  on.  The  night's  rest  did  not  carry  off  the 
temper.  Sophy  was  monosyllabic,  displeased  if  not  at- 
tended to,  but  receiving  attention  like  an  affront ;  want- 
ing nothing,  but  offended  if  it  were  not  offered.  Albinia 
was  exceedingly  grieved.  She  had  some  suspicion  that 
Sophy  might  have  been  hurt  by  her  going  to  Mrs.  Fer- 
rars instead  of  to  her  on  their  return  from  church,  and 
made  an  attempt  at  an  apology,  but  this  was  snubbed  like 
an  additional  affront,  and  she  could  only  bide  the  time, 
and  be  greatly  disappointed  at  such  an  exhibition  before 
the  guests. 

Winifred  looked  on,  forbearing  to  hurt  Albania's  feel- 


186  THE   YOUNG   STEP-ilOTHER. 

ings  by  remarks,  but  in  private  compensating  by  little 
outbreaks  with  her  husband,  teasing  him  about  his  hope- 
ful goddaughter,  laughing  at  Albinia's  infatuation,  and 
railing  at  Mr.  Kendal's  endurance  of  the  ill-humour, 
which  she  declared  he  promoted. 

Maurice,  as  usual,  was  provoking.  He  had  no  notion 
of  giving  up  his  godchild,  he  said,  and  he  had  no  doubt 
that  Edmund  Kendal  could  manage  his  own  child  his 
own  way. 

1  Because  of  his  great  success  in  that  line.' 

1  He  is  not  what  he  was.  He  uses  his  sense  and  prin- 
ciple now,  and  when  they  are  fairly  brought  to  bear,  I 
know  no  one  whom  I  would  more  entirely  trust.' 

'  Well !  it  will  be  great  good  luck  if  I  do  not  fall  foul 
of  Miss  Sophy  one  of  these  days,  if  no  one  else  will ! ' 

Winifred  was  slightly  irritable  herself  from  weakness, 
and  on  the  last  morning  of  her  stay  she  could  bear  the 
sight  no  longer.  Sophy  had  twice  been  surly  to  Lucy's 
good  offices,  had  given  Albinia  a  look  like  thunder,  and 
answered  her  father  with  a  sulky  displeasure  that  made 
Mrs.  Ferrars  exclaim,  as  soon  as  he  had  left  the  room,  '  I 
should  never  allow  a  child  of  mine  to  speak  to  her  father 
in  that  manner  ! ' 

Sophy  swelled.  She  did  not  think  Mrs.  Ferrars  had 
any  right  to  interfere  between  her  and  her  father.  Her 
silence  provoked  Winifred  to  continue,  '  I  wonder  if  you 
have  any  compunction  for  having  spoilt  all  your — all 
Mrs.  Kendal's  enjoyment  of  our  visit.' 

'  I  am  not  of  consequence  enough  to  spoil  any  one's 
pleasure.' 

That  was  the  last  effort.  Albinia  came  into  the  room, 
with  little  Maurice  holding  her  hand,  and  flourishing  a 
whip.  He  trotted  up  to  the  sofa,  and  began  instantly  to 
1  whip  sister  Sophy ; '  serve  her  right,  if  I  had  but  the 
whip,  thought  Mrs.  Ferrars,  as  his  mother  hurried  to 
snatch  him  off.  Leaning  over  Sophy's  averted  face,  she 
saw  a  tear  under  her  eyelashes,  but  took  no  notice. 

Three  seconds  after,  Sophy  reared  herself  up,  and 
with  a  rigid  face  and  slow  step,  walked  out  of  the  room. 

*  Have  you  said  anything  to  her  ? '  asked  Albinia. 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  187 

*  I  could  not  help  it,'  said  Winifred,  narrating  what 
had  past.     '  Have  I  done  wrong  ?  ' 

'  Edmund  cannot  bear  to  have  anything  harsh  said  to 
her  in  these  moods,  especially  about  her  behaviour  to 
himself.  He  thinks  she  cannot  help  it — but  it  may  be 
well  that  she  should  know  how  it  appears  to  other  people, 
for  I  cannot  bear  to  see  his  patient  kindness  spurned. 
Only,  you  know,  she  values  it  in  her  heart.  I  am  afraid 
we  shall  have  a  terrible  agony  now.' 

Albinia  was  right.  It  was  the  worst  agony  poor 
Sophy  had  ever  undergone.  She  had  been  all  this  time 
ignorant  that  it  was  a  cross  fit,  only  imagining  herself 
cruelly  neglected  and  cast  aside  for  the  sake  of  Mrs.  Fer- 
rars ;  but  the  wakening  time  had  either  arrived,  or  had 
been  brought  by  that  reproach,  and  she  beheld  her  con- 
duct in  the  most  abhorrent  light.  After  having  desired 
to  be  pledged  to  her  share  of  the  covenant,  and  earnestly 
longed  to  bear  the  cross,  to  be  sworn  in  as  soldier  and 
servant,  to  have  put  her  neck  under  the  yoke  of  her  old 
master  ere  the  cross  had  dried  upon  her  brow,  to  have 
been  meanly  jealous,  ungrateful,  disrespectful,  vindictive  ! 
oh  !  misery,  misery  !  hopeless  misery  !  She  would  take 
no  word  of  comfort  when  Albinia  tried  to  persuade  her 
that  it  had  been  partly  the  reaction  of  a  mind  wrought 
up  to  an  occasion  very  simple  in  its  externals,  and  of  a 
body  fatigued  by  exertion ;  and  then  in  warm-hearted 
candour  professed  that  she  herself  had  been  thoughtless 
in  neglecting  Sophy  for  Winifred.  Still  less  comfort 
would  she  take  in  her  father's  free  forgiveness,  and  his 
sad  entreaties  that  she  would  not  treat  these  fits  of  low 
spirits  as  a  crime,  for  they  were  not  her  fault,  but  that  of 
her  constitution. 

'Then  one  can't  help  being  hateful  and  wicked! 
Nothing  is  of  any  use  !  I  had  rather  you  had  told  me  I 
was  mad  ! '  said  poor  Sophy. 

She  was  so  spent  and  exhausted  with  weeping,  that  she 
could  not  come  down — indeed,  between  grief  and  ner- 
vousness she  would  not  eat ;  and  Albinia  found  Mr.  Ken- 
dal mournfully  persuading  her,  when  a  stern  command 
would  have  done  more  good.     Albinia  spoke  it :   *  Sophy, 


188  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

you  have  put  your  father  to  a  great  deal  of  pain  already ; 
if  you  are  really  grieving  over  it,  you  will  not  hurt  him 
more  by  making  yourself  ill.' 

The  strong  will  came  into  action  on  the  right  side,  and 
Sophy  sat  up,  took  what  was  offered,  but  what  was  she 
that  they  should  care  for  her,  when  she  had  spoilt  mamma's 
pleasure  ?     Better  go  and  be  happy  with  Mrs.  Ferrars. 

Sophy's  next  visitor  came  up  with  a  manly  tread,  and 
she  almost  feared  that  she  had  made  herself  ill  enough  for 
the  doctor ;  but  it  was  Mr.  Ferrars,  with  a  kind  face  of 
pitying  sympathy. 

1  May  I  come  to  wish  my  godchild  good-bye  ? '  he  said. 

Sophy  did  not  speak,  and  he  looked  compassionately 
at  the  prone  dejection  of  the  whole  figure,  and  the  pale, 
sallow  face,  so  piteously  mournful.  He  took  her  hand, 
and  began  to  tell  her  of  the  godfather's  present,  that  he 
had  brought  her — a  little  book  of  devotions  intended  for 
the  time  when  she  should  be  confirmed.  Sophy  uttered  a 
feeble  c  thank  you,'  but  a  hopeless  one. 

' Ah !  you  are  feeling  as  if  nothing  would  do  you  any 
good,'  said  Mr.  Ferrars. 

1  Papa  says  so  ! '  she  answered. 

'  Not  quite,'  said  Mr.  Ferrars.  '  He  knows  that  your 
low  spirits  are  the  effect  of  temperament  and  health,  and 
that  you  are  not  able  to  prevent  yourself  from  feeling  un- 
happy and  aggrieved.  And  perhaps  you  reckoned  on  too 
much  sensible  effect  from  Church  ordinances.  Now  joy, 
help,  all  these  blessings  are  seldom  revealed  to  our  con- 
sciousness, but  are  matters  of  faith;  and  you  must  be 
content  to  work  on  in  faith  in  the  dark,  before  you  feel 
comfort.  I  cannot  but  hope  that  if  you  will  struggle,  even 
when  you  are  hurt  and  annoyed,  to  avoid  the  expression 
of  vexation,  the  morbid  temper  will  wear  out,  and  you  will 
both  be  tempted  and  suffer  less,  as  you  grow  older.  And, 
Sophy — forgive  me  for  asking — do  you  pray  in  this  un- 
happy state  ? ' 

'  I  cannot.     It  is  not  true.' 

1  Make  it  true.  Take  some  verse  of  a  Psalm.  Shall 
I  mark  you  some  1  Eepeat  them,  even  if  you  seem  to 
yourself  not  to  feel  them.     There  is  a  holy  power  that  will 


THE   YOUXG    STEP-MOTHER.  189 

work  on  you  at  last ;  and  when  you  can  truly  pray,  the 
dark  hour  will  pass.' 

I  Mark  them,'  said  Sophy. 

There  was  some  space,  while  she  gave  him  the  book, 
and  he  showed  her  the  verses.     Then  he  rose  to  go. 

I I  wish  I  had  not  spoilt  the  visit,'  she  said,  wistfully, 
at  last. 

1  We  shall  see  you  again,  and  we  shall  know  each  other 
better,'  he  said,  kindly.  '  You  are  my  godchild  now,  So- 
phy, and  you  know  that  I  must  remember  you  constantly 
in  prayer.' 

'  Yes,'  she  faintly  said. 

'  And  will  you  promise  me  to  try  my  remedy?  I  think 
it  will  soften  your  heart  to  the  graces  of  the  Blessed  Com- 
forter. And  even  if  all  seem  gloom  within,  look  out,  see 
others  happy,  try  to  rejoice  with  them,  and  peace  will 
come  in  !  Xow,  good-bye,  my  dear  godchild,  and  the 
God  of  Peace  bless  you,  and  give  you  rest.' 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Mr.  Dusautoy  had  given  notice  of  the  day  of  the  Con- 
firmation, when  Mr.  Kendal  called  his  wife. 

'I  wonder,'  he  said,  'my  dear,  whether  Sophia  can 
spare  you  to  take  a  walk  with  me  before  church.' 

Sophy,  who  was  well  aware  that  a  walk  with  him  was 
the  greatest  and  rarest  treat  to  his  wife,  gave  gracious 
permission,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  walking  by 
the  bright  canal-side,  under  the  calm  evening  sunshine 
and  deep  blue  sky  of  early  autumn. 

Mr.  Kendal  said  not  a  word,  and  Albinia,  leaning  on 
his  arm,  listened,  as  it  were,  to  the  stillness,  or  rather  to 
the  sounds  that  marked  it — the  gurgling  of  the  little 
streams  let  off  into  the  water-courses  in  the  meadows  ;  the 
occasional  plunge  of  the  rat  from  the  banks ;  the  sounds 
from  the  town,  softened  by  distance ;  and  the  far-off  caw- 
ings  of  the  rooks,  which  she  could  just  see  wheeling  about 


190  TUE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

as  little  black  specks  over  the  plantations  of  Woodside,  or 
watching  the  swallows  assembling  for  departure  sitting  in 
long  ranks,  like  an  ornament  along  the  roof  of  a  neigh- 
bouring barn. 

Long,  long  it  was  before  Mr.  Kendal  broke  silence,  but 
when  at  length  he  did  speak,  his  words  amazed  her  ex- 
tremely. 

*  Albinia,  poor  Sophia's  admission  into  the  Church  has 
not  been  the  only  neglect.  I  have  never  been  confirmed. 
I  intend  to  speak  to  Dusautoy  this  evening,  but  I  thought 
you  would  wish  to  know  it  first.' 

1  Thank  you.  I  suppose  you  went  out  to  India  too 
young.' 

'  Poor  Maria  says  truly  that  no  one  thought  of  these 
things  in  our  day,  at  least  so  far  as  we  were  concerned. 
I  must  exjtlain  to  you,  Albinia,  how  it  is  that  I  see  things 
very  differently  now  from  the  light  in  which  I  once  view- 
ed them.  I  was  sent  home  from  India,  at  six  years  old, 
to  correspondents  and  relations  to  whom  I  was  a  burthen. 
I  was  placed  at  a  private  school,  where  the  treatment  was 
of  the  harsh  style  so  common  in  those  days.  The  boys 
always  had  more  tasks  than  they  could  accomplish,  and 
were  kept  employed  by  being  always  in  arrears  with  their 
lessons.  This  pressed  less  heavily  upon  me  than  on  most ; 
but  though  I  seldom  incurred  punishment,  there  was  a  sort 
of  hard  distrust  of  me,  I  believe  because  the  master  could 
not  easily  overwhelm  me  with  work,  so  as  to  have  me  in 
his  power.  I  knew  I  was  often  unjustly  treated,  and  I 
never  was  popular.' 

*  Yes,  I  can  imagine  you  extremely  miserable.' 

'  You  can  understand  my  resolution  that  my  boys 
should  not  be  sent  to  England  to  be  homeless,  and  how  I 
judged  all  schools  by  my  own  experience.  I  stayed  there 
too  late,  till  I  was  beyond  both  tormentors  and  masters, 
and  was  left  to  an  unlimited  appetite  for  books,  chiefly 
poetry.  Our  religious  instruction  was  a  nullity,  and  I  am 
only  surprised  that  the  results  were  not  worse.  India  was 
not  likely  to  supply  what  education  had  omitted.  Look- 
ing back  on  old  journals  and  the  like,  I  am  astonished  to 
see  how  unsettled  my  notions  were — my  sublimity,  which 


THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  191 

was  really  ignorant  childishness,  and  yet  my  perfect  un- 
consciousness of  my  want  of  Christianity.' 

1 1  dare  say  you  cannot  believe  it  was  yourself,  any  more 
than  I  can.     What  brought  other  thoughts  1 ' 

'  Practical  obligations  made  me  somewhat  less  dreamy, 
and  my  dear  boy,  Edmund,  did  much  for  me,  but  all  so 
insensibly,  that  I  can  remember  no  marked  change.  I  do 
not  know  whether  you  will  understand  me,  when  I  say 
that  I  had  attained  to  somewhat  of  what  I  shall  call  per- 
sonal religion,  such  as  we  often  find  apart  from  the  Church.' 

'  But,  Edmund,  you  always  were  a  Churchman.' 

'  I  was  ;  but  I  viewed  the  Church  merely  as  an  estab- 
lishment— human,  not  divine.  I  had  learnt  faith  from 
Holy  Scripture,  from  my  boy,  from  the  infants  who  passed 
away  so  quickly,  and  I  better  understood  how  to  direct 
the  devotional  tendencies  that  I  had  never  been  without ; 
but  the  sacramental  system  had  never  dawned  on  my  com- 
prehension, nor  the  real  meaning  of  Christian  fellowship. 
Thence  my  isolation.' 

1  You  had  never  fairly  seen  the  Church.' 

'  Never.  It  might  have  made  a  great  difference  to  me 
if  Dusautoy  had  been  here  at  the  time  of  my  trouble.  When 
he  did  come,  I  had  sunk  into  a  state  whence  I  could  not 
rouse  myself  to  understand  his  principles.  I  can  hardly 
describe  how  intolerable  my  life  had  become.  I  was  al- 
most resolved  on  returning  to  India.  I  believe  I  should 
have  done  so  if  you  had  not  come  to  my  rescue.' 

*  What  would  you  have  done  with  the  children  !  ' 

1  To  say  the  truth  I  had  idolized  their  brother  to  such 
an  exclusive  degree,  that  I  could  not  turn  to  the  others 
when  he  was  taken  from  me.  I  deserved  to  lose  him  ;  and 
since  I  have  seen  this  unfortunate  strain  of  melancholy 
developed  in  poor  Sophia,  who  so  much  resembles  him,  I 
have  been  the  more  reconciled  to  his  having  been  removed. 
I  never  understood  what  the  others  might  be  until  you  drew 
them  out.' 

Albinia  paused,  afraid  to  press  his  reserve  too  far  ;  and 
the  next  thing  she  said  was,  '  I  think  I  understand  your 
distinction  between  personal  religion  and  sacramental 
truth.     It  explains  what  has  often  puzzled  me  about  good 


192  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER, 

devout  people  who  did  not  belong  to  tie  Church.  The 
Visible  Church  cannot  save  without  this  individual  per- 
sonal religion  ;  but  without  having  recourse  to  the  Church, 
there  is '  she  could  not  find  the  word. 

'  There  is  a  loss  of  external  aid,'  he  said ;  '  nay  of 
much  more.  There  is  no  certainty  of  receiving  the  bene- 
fits linked  by  Divine  Power  to  her  ordinances.  Faith,  in 
fact,  while  acknowledging  the  great  Object  of  Faith,  re- 
fuses or  neglects  to  exercise  herself  upon  the  very  subjects 
which  He  has  set  before  her ;  and,  in  effect,  would  accept 
Him  on  her  terms,  not  on  His  own.' 

1  It  was  not  refusal  on  your  part,'  said  Albinia. 

'No,  it  was  rather  indifference  and  imaginary  superi- 
ority. But  I  have  read  and  thought  much  of  late,  and 
see  more  clearly.  If  I  thought  of  this  rite  of  Confirma- 
tion at  all,  it  was  only  as  a  means  of  impressing  young 
minds.  I  now  see  every  evidence  that  it  is  the  comple- 
tion of  Baptismal  grace,  and  without,  like  poor  Sophia, 
expecting  that  effects  would  ever  have  been  perceptible, 
I  think- that  had  I  known  how  to  seek  after  the  Spirit  of 
Counsel  and  Ghostly  Strength,  I  might  have  given  way 
less  to  the  infirmities  of  my  character,  and  have  been  less 
wilfully  insensible  to  obvious  duties.' 

i  Then  you  have  made  up  your  mind  !  ' 

I  Yes.     I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Dusautoy  at  once.' 

'  And,'  she  said,  feeling  for  his  sensitive  shyness,  '  no 
one  else  need  know  it — at  least — ' 

I I  should  not  wish  to  conceal  it  from  the  children,'  he 
answered,  with  his  scrupulous  candour.  He  was  supine 
when  thought  more  ill  of  than  he  deserved,  but  he  always 
defended  himself  from  undeserved  credit. 

'  Whom  do  you  think  I  have  for  a  candidate  ?  '  said  Mr. 

Dusautoy  that  evening. 

4  Another  now  !     I  thought  you  were  talking  to  Mr. 

Kendal  about  the  onslaught  on  the  Pringle  pew.' 

1  What  do  you  think  of  my  churchwarden  himself  ? ' 
i  You  don't  mean  that  he  has  never  been  confirmed? ' 
'  So  he  tells  me.     He  went  out  to  India  young,  and 

was  never  in  the  way  of  such  things.     Well,  it  will  be  a 

great  example.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  193 

*  Take  care  what  you  do.  He  will  never  endure  hav- 
ing it  talked  of.' 

1 1  think  he  has  made  up  his  mind,  and  is  above  all 
nonsense.  I  am  sure  it  is  well  that  I  need  not  examine 
him.     I  should  soon  get  beyond  my  depth.' 

*  And  what  good  did  his  depth  ever  do  to  him,'  indig- 
nantly cried  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  '  till  that  dear  good  wife  of 
his  took  him  in  hand?  Don't  you  remember  what  a  log 
he  was  when  first  we  came — how  I  used  to  say  he  gave  you 
subscriptions  to  get  rid  of  you.' 

1  Well,  well,  Fanny,  what's  the  use  of  recollecting  all 
our  foolish  first  impressions.  I  always  told  you  he  was  the 
most  able  man  in  the  parish.' 

*  Fanny '  laughed  merrily  at  this  piece  of  sagacity,  as 
she  said,  'Ay,  the  most  able,  and  the  least  practicable  ;  and 
the  best  of  it  is,  that  his  wife  has  not  the  most  distant  idea 
that  she  has  been  the  making  of  him.  She  nearly  quar- 
relled with  me  for  hinting  it.  She  would  have  it  that 
"  Edmund"  had  it  all  in  him,  and  had  only  recovered  his 
health  and  spirits.' 

And,  indeed,  it  wras  no  wonder  she  was  happy.  This 
step,  taken  of  free  will  by  Mr.  Kendal,  was  an  evidence 
not  only  of  a  powerful  reasoning  intellect  bowed  to  an  act 
of  simple  faith,  but  of  a  victory  over  the  false  shame  that 
had  always  been  a  part  of  his  nature.  Nor  did  it  appar- 
ently cost  him  as  much  as  his  consent  to  Sophy's  admis- 
sion into  the  Church ;  the  first  effort  had  been  the  greatest, 
and  he  was  now  too  much  taken  up  with  deep  thoughts  of 
devotion  to  be  sensitive  as  to  the  eyes  and  remarks  of  the 
world.  The  very  resolution  to  bend  in  faithful  obedience 
to  a  rite  usually  belonging  to  early  youth  and  not  obvi- 
ously enforced  to  human  reason,  nor  made  an  express  con- 
dition of  salvation,  was  as  a  pledge  that  he  would  strive 
to  walk  for  the  future  in  the  path  of  self-denying  obedi- 
ence. Who  that  saw  the  manly  well-knit  form  kneeling 
among  the  slight  youthful  ones  around,  and  the  thoughtful, 
sorrow-marked  brow  bowed  down  beneath  the  Apostolic 
hand,  could  doubt  that  such  faith  and  such  humble  obedi- 
ence would  surely  be  endowed  with  a  full  measure  of  the 
Spirit  of  Ghostly  Might,  to  lead  him  on  in  his  battle  with 
9 


194  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

himself?  Those  young  ones  needed  the  '  sevenfold  veil 
between  them  and  the  fires  of  youth,'  but  surely  the 
freshening  and  renewing  cam  most  blessedly  to  the  man 
weary  already  with  sin  and  woe,  and  tired  out  alike  with 
himself  and  the  world,  because  he  had  lived  to  himself 
alone. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Old  Mr.  Pringle  never  stirred  beyond  his  parlor,  and 
was  invisible  to  every  one,  except  his  housekeeper  and 
doctor,  but  his  tall,  square,  curtained  pew  was  jealously 
locked  up,  and  was  a  grievance  to  the  vicar,  who,  having 
been  foiled  in  several  attempts,  was  meditating  a  fresh 
one,  if,  as  he  told  his  wife,  he  could  bring  his  church- 
warden up  to  the  scratch,  when  one  Sunday  morning  the 
congregation  was  electrified  by  the  sound  of  a  creak  and 
a  shake,  and  beheld  a  stout  hale  sunburnt  gentleman, 
fighting  with  the  disused  door,  and  finally  gaining  the  vic- 
tory by  strength  of  hand,  admitting  himself  and  a  boy 
among  the  dust  and  the  cobwebs. 

Had  Mr.  Pringle,  or  rather  his  housekeeper,  made  a 
virtue  of  necessity  ?  and  if  so,  who  could  it  be  *? 

Albinia  hailed  the  event  as  a  fertile  source  of  conjec- 
ture which  might  stave  off  dangerous  subjects  in  the  Sun- 
day call ;  but  there  was  no  opportunity  for  any  discussion, 
for  Maria  was  popping  about,  settling  and  unsettling 
everything  and  everybody,  in  a  state  of  greater  confusion 
than  ever,  inextricably  entangling  her  inquiries  for  Sophy 
with  her  explanations  about  the  rheumatism  which  had 
kept  grandmamma  from  church,  and  jumping  up  to  pull 
down  the  Venetian  blind,  which  descended  awry,  and  went 
up  worse.  The  lines  got  into  such  a  hopeless  complica- 
tion, that  Albinia  came  to  help  her,  while  Mr.  Kendal 
stood  dutifully  by  the  fire,  in  the  sentry-like  manner  in 
which  he  always  passed  that  hour,  bending  now  and  then 
to  listen  and  respond  to  some  meek  remark  of  old  Mrs. 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  195 

Meadows,  and  now  and  then  originating  one.  As  to 
assisting  Maria  in  any  pother,  he  well  knew  that  would 
be  a  vain  act  of  chivalry,  and  he  generally  contrived  to  be 
inaccessible  to  her  turmoils. 

1  Who  could  that  have  been  in  old  Pringle's  seat  ? '  he 
presently  began,  appropriating  Albinia's  cherished  morsel 
of  gossip ;  but  he  was  not  allowed  to  enjoy  it,  for  Miss 
Meadows  broke  out,  <  Oh,  Edmund!  this  blind;  I  beg 
your  pardon,  but  if  you  would  help — ' 

He  was  obliged  to  move  to  the  window,  and  ner- 
vously clutching  his  arm,  she  whispered,  '  You'll  excuse 
it,  I  know,  but  don't  mention  it — not  a  word  to  mamma.' 
Mr.  Kendal  looked  at  Albinia  to  gather  what  could  be  this 
dreadful  subject,  but  the  next  words  made  it  no  longer 
•doubtful.  'Ah,  you  were  away;  there's  no  use  in  ex- 
plaining— but  not  a  word  of  Sam  Pringle.  It  wTould  only 
make  her  uneasy — '  she  gasped  in  a  floundering  whisper, 
stopping  suddenly  short,  for  at  that  moment  the  stranger 
and  his  son  were  entering  the  garden,  so  near  them,  that 
they  might  have  seen  the  three  pairs  of  eyes  levelled  on 
them,  through  the  wide  open  end  of  the  unfortunate  blind, 
which  was  now  in  the  shape  of  a  fan. 

Albinia's  cheeks  glowed  with  sympathy,  and  she  longed 
for  the  power  of  helping  her,  marvelling  how  a  being  so 
nervously  restless  and  devoid  of  self-command  could  pass 
through  a  scene  likely  to  be  so  trying.  The  bell  sounded, 
and  the  loud  hearty  tones  of  a  manly  voice  were  heard. 
Albinia  looked  to  see  whether  her  help  were  needed,  but 
Miss  Meadows's  whole  face  was  brightened,  and  moving 
across  the  room  with  unusually  even  steps,  she  lent  on 
the  arm  of  her  mother's  chair,  saying,  '  Mamma,  it  is 
Captain  Pringle.  You  remember  Samuel  Pringle  ?  He 
settled  in  the  Mauritius,  you  know,  and  he  was  at  church 
this  morning  with  his  little  boy.' 

There  was  something  piteous  in  the  searching  look  of 
inquiry  that  Mrs.  Meadows  cast  at  her  daughter's  face ; 
but  Maria  had  put  it  aside  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile,  as 
'  Captain  Pringle  '  was  announced. 

He  trod  hard,  and  spoke  loud,  and  his  curly  grizzled 
hair  was  thrown  back  from  a  bronzed  open  face,  full  of 


196  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

broad  heartiness,  as  he  walked  in  with  outstretched  hand, 
exclaiming,  '  Well,  and  how  do  you  do  ? '  shaking  with  all 
his  might  the  hand  that  Maria  held  out.  '  And  how  are 
you,  Mrs.  Meadows  ?  You  see  I  could  not  help  coming 
back  to  see  old  friends.' 

1  Old  friends  are  always  welcome,  sir,'  said  the  old 
lady,  warmly.  '  My  son,  Mr.  Kendal,  sir — Mrs.  Kendal,' 
she  added,  with  a  becoming  old-fashioned  movement  of 
introduction. 

*  Very  glad  to  meet  you,'  said  the  captain,  extending 
to  each  such  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand,  that  Albinia  sus- 
pected he  was  taking  her  on  trust  for  Maria's  sister. 

1  Your  little  boy  1 '  asked  Mrs.  Meadows. 

'  Ay — Arthur,  come  and  make  the  most  of  yourself, 
my  man,'  said  he,  thumping  the  shy  boy  on  the  back  to 
give  him  courage.  '  I've  brought  him  home  for  his  school- 
ing— quite  time,  you  see,  though  what  on  earth  I'm  to  do 
without  him — ' 

The  boy  looked  miserable  at  the  words.  '  Ay,  ay,' 
continued  his  father,  '  you'll  do  well  enough.  I'm  not 
afraid  for  you,  master,  but  that  you'll  be  happy  as  your 
father  was  before  you,  when  once  you  have  fellows  to 
play  with  you.     Here  is  Mr.  Kendal  will  tell  you  so.' 

It  was  an  unfortunate  appeal,  but  Mr.  Kendal  made 
the  best  of  it,  saying  that  his  boy  was  very  happy  at  his 
tutor's. 

'  A  private  tutor,  eh  ?  '  said  the  rough  captain  ;  '  I'd 
not  thought  of  that — neither  home  nor  school.  I  had 
rather  do  it  thoroughly,  and  trust  to  numbers  to  choose 
friends  from,  and  be  licked  into  shape.' 

Poor  little  Arthur  looked  as  if  the  process  would  be 
severe  ;  and  by  way  of  consolation,  Mrs.  Meadows  sug- 
gested a  piece  of  cake.  Maria  moved  to  ring  the  bell. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  stirred  since  the  visitor  came 
in,  and  he  getting  up  at  the  same  time,  that  she  might  not 
trouble  herself,  their  eyes  met.  '  I'm  very  glad  to  see 
you  again,'  he  exclaimed,  catching  hold  of  her  hand  again 
for  another  shake ;  '  but,  bless  me  !  you  are  sadly  altered ! 
I'm  sorry  to  see  you  looking  so  ill.' 

*  We  all  grow  old,  you  know,'  said  Maria,  endeavour- 


THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  197 

ing  to  smile,  but  half  strangled  by  a  tear,  and  looking  at 
that  moment  as  she  might  have  done  long  ago.  '  You 
may  find  changes.' 

4 1  hope  you  find  Mr.  Pringle  pretty  well,'  said  Al- 
binia,  thinking  this  might  be  a  relief;  and  accordingly, 
the  kind-hearted  captain  began  ruefully  to  describe  the 
sad  alterations  that  time  had  wrought.  Then  he  explained 
that  he  had  had  little  correspondence  with  home,  and  had 
only  landed  three  days  since,  so  that  he  was  ignorant  of 
all  Bay  ford  tidings,  and  began  asking  after  a  multitude 
of  old  friends  and  acquaintances. 

The  Kendals  thought  all  would  go  on  the  better  in 
their  absence,  and  escaped  from  the  record  of  deaths  and 
marriages,  each  observing  to  the  other  as  they  left  the 
house,  that  there  could  be  little  doubt  that  nurse's  story 
was  true,  but  both  amazed  by  the  effect  on  Maria,  who 
had  never  been  seen  before  to  sit  so  long  quiet  in  her 
chair.  Was  his  wife  alive  1  Albinia  thought  not,  but 
could  not  be  certain.  His  presence  was  evidently  hap- 
piness to  Miss  Meadows  ;  but  would  this  last  1  Would 
this  renewal  soothe  her,  or  only  make  her  more  restless 
and  unhappy  ? 

Albinia  found  that  Sophy's  imagination  had  been 
quicker  than  her  own.  Lucy  had  brought  home  the  great 
news  of  the  stranger,  and  she  had  leapt  at  once  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  must  be  the  hero  of  nurse's  story  ;  but 
she  had  had  the  resolution  to  keep  the  secret  from  her 
sister,  who  was  found  reproaching  her  with  making  mys- 
teries. When  Lucy  heard  that  it  was  Captain  Pringle, 
she  was  quite  provoked. 

1  Only  Mr.  Pringle's  nephew  ! '  she  said,  disdainfully. 
*  What  was  the  use  of  making  a  fuss  ?  I  thought  it  was 
some  one  interesting  ! ' 

Sophy  was  able  to  walk  to  church  in  the  evening,  but 
was  made  to  go  in  to  rest  at  the  vicarage  before  returning 
home.  While  this  was  being  discussed  before  the  porch, 
Albinia  felt  a  pressure  on  her  arm,  and  looking  round, 
saw  Maria  Meadows.  '  Can  you  spare  me  a  few  mo- 
ments % '  she  said ;  and  Albinia  turned  aside  with  her  to 


198  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

the  flagged  terrace  path  between  the  churchyard  and 
vicarage  garden,  in  the  light  of  a  half-moon. 

1  You  were  so  kind  this  morning,'  began  Maria,  '  that 
I  thought — you  see  it  is  very  awkward — not  that  I  have 
any  idea — but  if  you  would  speak  to  Edmund — I  know 
he  is  not  in  the  habit — morning  visits  and — ' 

1  Do  you  wish  him  to  call  ?  He  had  been  thinking 
of  it.' 

Maria  would  have  been  unbounded  in  her  gratitude, 
but  catching  herself  up,  she  disclaimed  all  personal  inter- 
est— only  she  said  Edmund  knew  nothing  of  anything 
that  had  passed — if  he  did,  he  would  see  they  would 
feel— 

'  I  think,'  said  Albinia,  kindly,  '  that  we  do  know  that 
you  had  some  troubles  on  that  score.  Old  nurse  said 
something  to  Sophy,  but  no  other  creature  knows  it.' 

1  Ah  ! '  exclaimed  Maria,  '  that  is  what  comes  of  trust- 
ing any  one.  I  was  so  ill  when  1  found  out  how  it  had  been, 
that  I  could  not  keep  it  from  nurse,  but  from  mamma  I 
did — my  poor  father  being  just  gone  and  all — I  could  not 
have  had  her  know  how  much  I  felt  it — the  discovery  I 
mean — and  it  is  what  I  wish  her  never  to  do.  But  oh  ! 
Mrs.  Kendal,  think  what  it  was  to  find  out  that  when  I 
had  been  thinking  he  had  been  only  trifling  with  me  all 
those  years,  to  find  that  he  had  been  so  unkindly  treated. 
There  was  his  own  dear  letter  to  me  never  unsealed  ;  and 
there  was  another  to  my  father  saying  in  a  proud-spirited 
way  that  he  did  not  know  what  he  had  done  to  be  so 
served,  and  he  wished  I  might  find  happiness,  for  I  would 
never  find  one  that  loved  me  as  well.  I  who  had  turned 
against  him  in  my  heart ! ' 

'  It  was  cruel  indeed !  And  you  kept  it  from  your 
mother  ! '  said  Albinia,  beginning  to  honour  her. 

'  My  poor  father  was  just  gone,  you  know,  and  I 
could  not  be  grieving  her  with  what  was  passed  and  over, 
and  letting  her  know  that  my  father  had  broken  my 
heart,  as  indeed  I  think  he  did,  though  he  meant  it  all  for 
the  best.  But  oh  !  I  thought  it  hard  when  Lucy  had  mar- 
ried the  handsomest  man  in  the  country,  and  gone  out  to 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  199 

India,  without  a  word  against  it,  that  I  might  not  please 
myself,  because  I  was  papa's  favourite.' 

'  It  was  very  hard  not  to  be  made  aware  of  his  inten- 
tions.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Maria  ;  '  for  it  gave  me  such  a  bitter,  rest- 
less feeling  against  him — though  I  ought  to  have  known 
him  better  than  to  think  he  would  give  one  minute's  pain 
he  could  help ;  and  then  when  I  knew  the  truth,  the  bit- 
terness all  went  to  poor  papa's  memory,  and  yet  perhaps 
he  never  meant  to  be  unkind  either.' 

Albinia  said  some  kind  words,  and  Maria  went  on  : 

<-But  what  I  wanted  to  say  was  this — Please  don't  let 
mamma  suspect  one  bit  about  it ;  and  next,  if  Edmund 
would  not  mind  showing  him  a  little  attention.  Do  you 
think  he  would,  my  dear  ?  I  do  so  wish  that  he  should 
not  think  we  were  hurt  by  his  marriage ;  and  you  see, 
two  lone  women  can  do  nothing  to  make  it  agreeable ; 
besides  that,  it  wrould  not  be  proper.' 

'  Is  his  wife  living  ?  ' 

'  My  dear,  I  could  not  make  up  my  tongue  to  ask — 
the  poor  dear  boy  there  and  all — but  it  is  all  the  same. 
I  hope  she  is,  for  I  would  not  see  him  unhappy  ;  and  you 
don't  imagine  I  have  any  folly  in  my  head — oh,  no  !  for  I 
know  what  a  fright  the  fret  and  the  wear  of  this  have 
made  me  ;  and  besides,  I  never  could  leave  mamma.  So 
I  trust  his  wife  is  living  to  make  him  happy,  and  I  shall 
be  more  at  peace  now  I  have  seen  him  again,  since  he 
turned  his  horse  at  Robbie's  Leigh,  and  said  I  should 
soon  hear  from  him  again.' 

'  Indeed  I  think  you  will  be  happier.  There  is  some- 
thing very  soothing  in  taking  up  old  feelings  and  laying 
them  to  rest.  I  hope  even  now  there  is  less  pain  than 
pleasure.' 

'  I  can't  help  it,'  said  Maria.  '  I  do  hope  it  is  not 
wrong ;  but  his  very  voice  has  got  the  old  tone  in  it,  as 
if  it  were  the  old  lullaby  that  my  poor  heart  has  been 
beating  for  all  these  years.' 

Who  would  have  thought  of  Maria  speaking  poet- 
ically ?  But  her  words  did  indeed  seem  to  be  the  truth. 
In  spite  of  the  embarrassment  of  her  situation  and  the 


200  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

flutter  of  her  feelings,  she  was  in  a  state  of  composure 
unexampled.  Albinia  had  just  gratified  her  greatly  by 
a  few  words  on  Captain  Pringle's  evident  good-nature, 
when  a  tread  came  behind  them. 

'  Ha  !  you  here  ?  '  exclaimed  the  loud  honest  voice. 

'  We  were  taking  a  turn  in  the  moonlight,'  said  Al- 
binia.    '  A  beautiful  night.' 

'  Beautiful !  Arthur  and  I  have  been  a  bit  of  the  way 
home  with  old  Goldsmith.  There's  an  evergreen,  to  be 
sure  ;  and  now — are  you  bound  homewards,  Maria  1 ' 

Maria  clung  to  Albinia's  arm.  Perhaps  in  the  days 
of  the  last  parting,  she  had  been  less  careful  to  be  with  a 
chaperon. 

<  Ah  !  I  forgot,'  said  the  captain  ;  '  your  way  lies  the 
other  side  of  the  hill.  I  had  very  nearly  walked  into 
Willow  Lawn,  this  morning,  only  luckily  I  bethought  me 
of  asking.' 

' 1  hope  you  will  yet  walk  into  W'illow  Lawn,'  said 
Albinia. 

'  Ah  !  thank  you  ;  I  should  like  to  see  the  old  place. 
I  dare  say  it  may  be  transmogrified  now,  but  I  think  I 
could  find  my  way  blindfold  about  the  old  garden.  I 
say,  Maria,  do  you  remember  that  jolly  tea-party  on  the 
lawn,  when  the  frog  made  one  too  many  %  ' 

1  That  I  do — '  Maria  could  not  utter  more,  and  Al- 
binia said  she  was  afraid  he  would  miss  a  great  deal. 

1  I  reckoned  on  that  when  I  came  home.  Changes 
everywhere ;  but  after  the  one  great  change,'  he  added, 
mournfully,  '  the  others  tell  less.  One  has  the  less  heart 
to  care  for  an  old  tree  or  an  old  path.' 

Albinia  felt  sure  he  could  mean  only  one  great 
change,  but  they  were  now  at  Mrs.  Meadows's  door,  and 
Maria  wished  them  good-night,  giving  a  most  grateful 
squeeze  of  the  hand  to  Mrs.  Kendal. 

'  Where  are  you  bound  now  1 '  asked  the  captain. 

1  Back  to  the  vicarage,  to  take  up  my  husband  and  the 
girls,'  said  Albinia  ;  '  but  good  night.     I  am  not  afraid.' 

The  captain,  however,  chose  to  continue  a  squire  of 
dames,  and  walked  at  her  side,  presently  giving  utterance 
to  a  sound  of  commiseration.     '  Ah  !  well,  poor  Maria,  I 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  201 

never  thought  to  see  her  so  altered.  Why,  she  had  the 
prettiest  bloom — I  dare  say  you  remember — but,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  somehow  I  thought  you  were  her  elder 
sister.' 

'Mr.  Kendal's  first  wife  was,'  said  Albinia,  pitying 
the  poor  man ;  but  Captain  Pringle  was  not  a  man  for 
awkwardness,  and  the  short  whistle  with  which  he  re- 
ceived her  answer  set  her  off  laughing. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  he  said,  recovering  himself; 
i  but  you  see  I  am  all  astray,  like  a  man  buried  and  dug 
up  again,  so  no  wonder  I  make  strange  blunders  ;  and 
my  poor  uncle  is  grown  so  childish,  that  he  does  not 
know  one  person  from  another,  and  began  by  telling  me 
Maria  Meadows  had  married  and  gone  out  to  India.  I 
had  not  had  a  letter  these  seven  years,  so  I  thought  it  was 
high  time  to  bring  my  boy  home,  and  renew  old  times, 
though  how  I  am  ever  to  go  back  without  him — ' 

'  Is  he  your  only  one  ? ' 

'  Yes.  I  lost  his  mother  when  he  was  six  years  old, 
and  we  have  been  all  the  world  to  each  other  since,  till  I 
began  to  think  I  was  spoiling  him  outright,  and  it  was 
time  he  should  see  what  old  England  was  made  of.' 

Albinia  had  something  like  a  discovery  to  impart  now ; 
but  she  hated  the  sense  of  speculating  on  the  poor  man's 
intentions.  He  talked  so  much  that  he  saved  her  trouble 
in  replying,  and  presently  resumed  the  subject  of  Maria's 
looks. 

'  She  has  had  a  harassed  life,  I  fear,'  said  Albinia. 

'  Eh !  old  Meadows  was  a  terrible  old  tyrant,  I  be- 
lieve ;  but  she  was  his  pet.  I  thought  he  refused  her 
nothing — but  there's  no  trusting  such  a  Turk  !  Oh  !  ah  ! 
I  dare  say,'  as  if  replying  to  something  within.  And  then 
having  come  to  the  vicarage  wicket,  Albinia  took  leave 
of  him,  and  ran  indoors,  answering  the  astonished  queries 
as  to  how  she  had  been  employed,  '  Walking  home  with 
Aunt  Maria  and  Captain  Pringle  ! ' 

It  was  rather  a  relief  at  such  a  juncture  that  Lucy's 

curious  eyes  should  be  removed.     Mr.  Ferrars  came  to 

talk  his  wife's  state  over  with  his  sister.     Her  children 

were  too  much  for  Winifred,  and  he  wished  to  borrow 

9* 


202  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

Lucy  for  a  few  weeks,  till  a  governess  could  be  found  for 
them. 

It  struck  Albinia  that  this  would  be  an  excellent 
thing  for  Genevieve  Durant,  and  she  at  once  contrived  to 
ask  her  to  tea,  and  privately  propound  the  plan. 

Genevieve  faltered  much  of  thanks,  and  said  that 
Madame  was  very  good ;  but  the  next  morning  a  note 
was  brought  in,  which  caused  a  sudden  change  of  coun- 
tenance : — 

*  My  dear  Madame, 

'  I  was  so  overwhelmed  with  your  kindness  last 
night,  and  so  unwilling  to  appear  ungrateful,  that  per- 
haps I  left  you  under  a  false  impression.  I  entreat  you 
not  to  enter  on  the  subject  with  my  grandmamma  or  my 
aunt.  They  would  grieve  to  prevent  what  they  would 
think  for  my  advantage,  and  would,  I  am  but  too  sure, 
make  any  sacrifice  on  my  account;  but  they  are  no 
longer  young,  and  though  my  aunt  does  not  perceive  it,  I 
know  that  the  real  work  of  the  school  depends  on  me, 
and  that  she  could  not  support  the  fatigue  if  left  unas- 
sisted. They  need  their  little  Genevieve,  likewise,  to 
amuse  them  in  their  evenings  ;  and,  forgive  me,  madame, 
I  could  not,  without  ingratitude,  forsake  them  now.  Thus, 
though  with  the  utmost  sense  of  your  kindness,  I  must 
beg  of  you  to  pardon  me,  and  not  to  think  me  ungrateful 
if  I  decline  the  situation  so  kindly  offered  to  me  by  Mr. 
Ferrars,  thanking  you  ten  thousand  times  for  your  too 
partial  recommendation,  and  entreating  you  to  pardon 
*  Your  most  grateful  and  humble  servant, 

1  Genevieve  Celeste  Durant.' 

'  There  ! '  said  Albinia,  tossing  the  note  to  her  brother, 
who  was  the  only  person  present  excepting  Gilbert. 

'  Poor  Albinia,'  he  said  ;  c  it  is  hard  to  be  disappointed 
in  a  bit  of  patronage.' 

'  I  never  meant  it  as  patronage,'  said  Albinia,  slightly 
hurt.  '  I  thought  it  would  help  you,  and  rescue  her  from 
that  school.  There  will  she  spend  the  best  years  of  her 
life  in  giving  a  second-rate  education  to  third-rate  girls, 
not  one  of  whose  parents  can  appreciate  her,  till  she  will 
grow  as  wizened  and  as  wooden  as  Mademoiselle  herself.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  203 

4  Happily,'  said  Mr.  Ferrars,  *  there  are  worse  things 
than  being  spent  in  one's  duty.  She  may  be  doing  an 
important  work  in  her  sphere.' 

4  So  does  a  horse  in  a  mill,'  exclaimed  Albinia ;  4  but 
you  would  not  put  a  hunter  there.  Yes,  yes,  I  know, 
education,  and  these  girls  wanting  right  teaching ;  but 
she,  poor  child,  has  been  but  half  educated  herself,  and 
has  not  time  to  improve  herself.  If  she  does  good,  it  is 
by  force  of  sheer  goodness,  for  they  all  look  down  upon 
her,  as  much  as  vulgarity  can  upon  refinement.' 

1 1  told  her  so/  exclaimed  Gilbert ;  '  I  told  her  it  was 
the  only  way  to  teach  them  what  she  was  worth.' 

*  What  did  you  know  of  the  matter  ? '  asked  Albinia ; 
and  the  colour  mounted  in  the  boy's  face  as  he  muttered, 
4  She  was  overcome  when  she  came  down  ;  she  said  you 
had  been  so  kind,  and  we  were  obliged  to  walk  up  and 
down  before  she  could  compose  herself,  for  she  did  not 
want  the  old  ladies  to  know  anything  about  it.' 

4  And  did  she  not  wish  to  go  ? ' 

4  No  ;  though  I  did  the  best  I  could.  I  told  her  what 
a  jolly  place  it  was,  and  that  the  children  would  be  a  per- 
fect holiday  to  her.  And  I  showed  her  it  would  not  be 
like  going  away,  for  she  might  come  over  here  whenever 
she  pleased ;  and  when  I  have  my  horse,  I  would  come 
and  bring  her  word  of  the  old  ladies  once  a  week.' 

4  Inducements,  indeed  ! '  said  Mr.  Ferrars.  4  And  she 
could  not  be  melted  by  any  of  these  1 ' 

4  No,'  said  Gilbert ;  4  she  would  not  hear  of  leaving 
the  old  women.  She  was  only  afraid  it  would  vex  Mrs. 
Kendal,  and  she  could  not  bear  not  to  take  the  advice  of  so 
kind  a  friend,  she  said.  You  are  not  going  to  be  angry 
with  her,'  he  added. 

4  No,'  said  Albinia  ;  4  one  cannot  but  honour  her  mo- 
tives, though  I  think  she  is  mistaken ;  and  I  am  sorry  for 
her ;  but  she  knows  better  than  to  be  afraid  of  me.' 

With  which  assurance  Gilbert  quitted  the  room  ;  and 
the  next  moment,  hearing  the  front  door,  she  exclaimed, 
4 1  do  believe  he  is  gone  to  tell  her  how  I  took  the  an- 
nouncement.' 

Maurice  gave  a  significant  4  Hem ! '  to  which  his  sis- 
ter replied,  4  Nonsense ! ' 


204  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

'  Very  romantic  consolations  and  confidences.' 

i  Not  at  all.  They  have  been  used  to  each  other  all 
their  lives,  and  he  used  to  be  the  only  person  who  knew 
how  to  behave  to  her,  so  no  wonder  they  are  great 
friends.  As  to  anything  else,  she  is  nineteen,  and  he  not 
sixteen.' 

1  One  great  use  of  going  to  school  is  to  save  lads  from 
that  silly  pastime.  I  advise  you  to  look  to  these  moon- 
light escortings ! ' 

'  One  would  think  you  were  an  old  dowager,  Maurice. 
I  suppose  Colonel  Bury  may  not  escort  Miss  Mary.' 

1  Ah,  Albinia,  you  are  a  very  naughty  child  still.' 

'  Of  course,  when  you  are  here  to  keep  me  in  order ; 
I  wish  I  never  were  so  at  other  times  when  it  is  not  so 
safe.' 

Mr.  Kendal  was  kind  and  civil  to  Captain  Pringle, 
and  though  the  boisterous  manner  seemed  to  affect  him 
like  a  thunder-storm,  Maria  imagined  they  were  de- 
lighted with  one  another. 

Maria  was  strangely  serene  and  happy ;  her  queru- 
lous, nervous  manner  smoothed  away,  as  if  rest  had  come 
to  her  at  last ;  and  even  if  the  renewed  intercourse  were 
only  to  result  in  a  friendship,  there  was  hope  that  the 
troubled  spirit  had  found  repose  now  that  misunderstand- 
ings were  over,  and  the  sore  sense  of  ill-usage  appeased. 

Yet  Albinia  was  startled  when  one  day  Mr.  Kendal 
summoned  her,  saying, '  It  is  all  over ;  she  has  refused 
him ! ' 

'  Impossible ;  she  could  only  have  left  half  her  sen- 
tence unsaid.' 

'  Too  certain.     She  will  not  leave  her  mother.' 

<  Is  that  all  ? ' 

*  Of  course  it  is.  He  told  me  the  whole  affair,  and 
certainly  Mr.  Meadows  was  greatly  to  blame.  He  let 
Maria  give  this  man  every  encouragement,  believing  his 
property  larger,  and  his  expectations  more  secure  than 
was  the  case ;  and  when  the  proposal  was  made,  having 
discovered  his  mistake,  he  sent  a  peremptory  refusal,  giv- 
ing him  reason  to  suppose  her  a  party  to  the  rejection. 
Captain  Pringle  sailed  in  anger ;  but  it  appears  that  his 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  205 

return  has  revived  his  former  feelings,  and  that  he  has 
found  out  that  poor  Maria  was  a  greater  sufferer  than 
himself. 

1  Why  does  he  come  to  you  ? ' 

'  To  consult  me.  He  wishes  me  to  persuade  poor  old 
Mrs.  Meadows  to  go  out  to  the  Mauritius,  which  is 
clearly  impossible ;  but  Maria  must  not  be  sacrificed 
again.  Would  the  Drurys  make  her  comfortable  ?  Or 
could  she  not  live  alone  with  her  maid  ? ' 

1  She  might  live  here.' 

<  Albinia  !     Think  a  little.' 

'  I  can  think  of  nothing  else.  Let  her  have  the  morn- 
ing-room, and  Sophy's  little  room,  and  Lucy  and  I  would 
do  our  best  for  her.' 

'  No,  that  is  out  of  the  question.  I  would  not  impose 
such  a  charge  upon  you  on  any  consideration  ! ' 

Albinia's  face  became  humble  and  remorseful.  *  Yes,' 
she  said,  '  perhaps  I  am  too  impatient  and  flighty.' 

1  That  was  not  what  I  meant,'  he  said  ;  '  but  I  do  not 
think  it  right  that  a  person  with  no  claims  of  relationship 
should  be  made  a  burthen  on  you.' 

'  No  claims,  Edmund,'  said  she  softly.  '  In  whose 
place  have  you  put  me  % ' 

He  was  silent :  then  said,  '  No,  it  must  not  be,  my 
kind  Albinia.  She  is  a  very  good  old  lady,  but  Sophy 
and  she  would  clash,  and  I  cannot  expose  the  child  to  such 
a  trial.' 

1  I  daresay  you  are  right,'  pensively  said  Albinia,  per- 
ceiving that  her  plan  had  been  inconsiderate,  and  that  it 
would  require  the  wisdom,  tact,  and  gentleness  of  a  model 
woman  to  deal  with  such  discordant  elements.  '  What  are 
you  going  to  do  % '  as  he  took  up  his  hat.  '  Are  you 
going  to  see  Maria  ?     May  I  come  with  you  ?  ' 

'  If  you  please  ;  but  do  not  mention  this  notion. 
There  is  no  necessity  for  such  a  tax  on  you ;  and  such  ar- 
rangements should  never  be  rashly  made.' 

He  asked  whether  Miss  Meadows  could  see  him,  and 
awaited  her  alone  in  the  dining-room,  somewhat  to  the 
surprise  of  his  wife ;  but  either  he  felt  that  there  was  a 
long  arrear  of  kindness  owing,  or  feared  to  trust  Albinia's 
impulsive  generosity. 


206  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK. 

Meantime  Albinia  found  the  poor  old  lady  in  much 
uneasiness  and  distress.  Her  daughter  fancied  it  right  to 
keep  her  in  ignorance  of  the  crisis ;  but  Maria  was  not 
the  woman  to  conceal  her  feelings,  and  her  nervous  mis- 
ery had  revealed  all  that  she  most  wished  to  hide.  Too 
timid  to  take  her  confidence  by  storm,  her  mother  had 
only  exchanged  surmises  and  observations  with  Betty, 
and  was  in  a  troubled  condition  of  affectionate  curiosity 
and  anxiety.  Albinia  was  a  welcome  visitor,  since  it  was 
a  great  relief  to  hear  what  had  really  taken  place,  and  to 
know  that  Mr.  Kendal  was  with  Maria. 

'  Ah !  that  is  kind,'  she  said ;  '  but  he  must  tell  her 
not  to  think  of  me.  I  am  an  old  woman,  good  for  noth- 
ing but  to  be  put  out  of  the  way,  and  she  has  gone  through 
quite  enough  !  You  will  not  let  her  give  it  up  !  Tell  her 
I  have  not  many  more  years  to  live,  and  anything  is  good 
enough  for  me.' 

'  That  would  hardly  comfort  her,'  said  Albinia,  affec- 
tionately ;  '  but  indeed,  dear  grandmamma,  I  hope  we 
shall  convince  her  that  we  can  do  something  to  supply 
her  place.' 

'  Ah !  my  dear,  you  are  very  kind,  but  nobody  can 
be  like  a  daughter  !  But  don't  tell  Maria  so — poor  dear 
love — she  may  never  have  another  chance.  Such  a  beau- 
tiful place  out  there,  and  Mr.  Pringle's  property  must 
come  to  him  at  last !  Bless  me,  what  will  Sarah 
Drury  say  ?  And  such  a  good  attentive  man — besides, 
she  never  would  hear  of  any  one  else — her  poor  papa 
never  knew — Oh  !  she  must  have  him  !  it  is  all  nonsense 
to  think  of  me  !    I  only  wish  I  was  dead  out  of  the  way  ! ' 

There  was  a  strong  mixture  of  unselfish  love,  and  fear 
of  solitude ;  of  the  triumph  of  marrying  a  daughter,  and 
dread  of  separation  ;  of  affection,  and  of  implanted  world- 
liness  ;  touching  Albinia  at  one  moment,  and  paining  her 
at  another ;  but  she  soothed  and  caressed  the  old  lady, 
and  was  a  willing  listener  to  what  was  meant  for  a  history 
of  the  former  transaction ;  but  as  it  started  from  old  Mr. 
Pringle's  grandfather,  it  had  only  proceeded  as  far  as  the 
wedding  of  the  captain's  father  and  mother,  when  it  was 
broken  off  by  Mr.  Kendal's  entrance. 


THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  207 

'  Oh !  my  dear  Mr.  Kendal,  and  what  does  poor 
Maria  say  ?  It  is  so  kind  in  you.  I  hope  you  have 
taken  her  in  hand,  and  told  her  it  is  quite  another  thing 
now,  and  her  poor  dear  papa  would  think  so.  She  must 
not  let  this  opportunity  pass,  for  she  may  never  have 
another.     Did  you  tell  her  so  ?  ' 

'  I  told  her  that,  under  the  circumstances,  she  lias  no 
alternative  but  to  accept  Captain  Pringle.' 

1  Oh  !  thank  you.     And  does  she  ?  ' 

1  She  has  given  me  leave  to  send  him  to  her.' 

'  I  am  so  much  obliged.  I  knew  that  nobody  but  you 
could  settle  it  for  her,  poor  dear  girl ;  she  is  so  young 
and  inexperienced,  and  one  is  so  much  at  a  loss  without 
a  gentleman.  But  this  is  very  kind  ;  I  did  not  expect  it 
in  you,  Mr.  Kendal.  And  will  you  see  Mr.  Pettilove, 
and  do  all  that  is  proper  about  settlements,  as  her  poor 
dear  papa  would  have  done?  Poor  Pettilove,  he  was 
once  very  much  in  love  with  Maria  ! ' 

In  this  mood  of  triumph  and  felicity,  the  old  lady  was 
left  to  herself  and  her  daughter.  Albinia,  on  the  way 
home,  begged  to  hear  how  Mr.  Kendal  had  managed 
Maria ;  and  found  that  he  had  simply  told  her,  in  an  au- 
thoritative tone,  that  after  all  that  had  passed,  she  had  no 
choice  but  to  accept  Captain  Pringle,  and  that  he  had 
added  a  promise,  equally  vague  and  reassuring,  of  being 
a  son  to  Mrs.  Meadows.  Such  injunctions  from  such  a 
quarter  had  infused  new  life  into  Maria  ;  and  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon,  Albinia  met  the  Captain  with  the 
mother  and  daughter,  one  on  each  arm,  Maria  in  recov- 
ered bloom  and  brilliancy,  and  Mrs.  Meadows's  rheum- 
atism forgotten  m  the  glory  of  exhibiting  her  daughter 
engaged. 

For  form's  sake,  secrecy  had  been  mentioned  ;  but  the 
world  of  Bayford  had  known  of  the  engagement  a  fort- 
night before  it  took  place.  Sophy  had  been  questioned 
upon  it  by  Mary  Wolfe  two  hours  ere  she  was  officially 
informed,  and  was  sore  with  the  recollection  of  her  own 
ungracious  professions  of  ignorance. 

1  So  it  is  true,'  she  said.  *  I  don't  mind,  since  Arthur 
is  not  a  girl.' 


208  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

Mr.  Kendal  laughed  so  heartily,  that  Sophy  looked  to 
Albinia  for  explanation ;  but  even  on  the  repetition  of 
her  words,  she  failed  to  perceive  anything  ridiculous  in 
them. 

'  Why,  mamma,'  she  said  impressively,  '  if  you  had 

been  like  Aunt  Maria,  I  should '  she   paused   and 

panted  for  sufficient  strength  of  phrase — '  1  should  have 
run  away  and  begged !  Papa  laughs,  but  I  am  sure  he 
remembers  when  grandmamma  and  Aunt  Maria  wanted 
to  come  and  live  here  ! ' 

He  looked  as  if  he  remembered  it  only  too  well. 

*  Well,  papa,'  pursued  Sophy,  '  we  heard  the  maids 
saying  that  they  knew  it  would  not  do,  for  all  Mr.  Ken- 
dal was  so  still  and  steady,  for  Miss  Meadows  would 
worret  the  life  out  of  a  lead  pincushion.' 

'  Hem  ! '  said  Mr.  Kendal.  '  Albinia,  do  you  think 
after  all  we  are  doing  Captain  Pringle  any  kindness  %  ' 

'  He  is  the  best  judge.' 

'  Nay,  he  may  think  himself  bound  in  honour  and 
compassion — he  may  be  returning  to  an  old  ideal.' 

'  People  like  Captain  Pringle  are  not  apt  to  have 
ideals,'  said  Albinia ;  '  nor  do  I  think  Maria  will  be  so 
trying.  Do  you  remember  that  creeper  of  Lucy's,  all 
tendrils  and  catching  leaves,  which  used  to  lie  sprawling 
ahput,  entangling  everything,  till  she  gave  it  a  prop,  when 
it  instantly  found  its  proper  development,  and  offered  no 
further  molestation  ? ' 

All  was  not,  however,  smooth  water  as  yet.  The 
Captain  invaded  Mr.  Kendal  the  next  morning  in  despair 
at  Maria's  having  recurred  to  the  impossibility  of  leaving 
her  mother,  and  wanting  him  to  wait  till  he  could  reside 
in  England.  This  could  not  be  till  his  son  was  grown 
up,  and  ten  years  were  a  serious  delay.  Mr.  Kendal  sus- 
pected her  of  a  latent  hope  that  the  Captain  would  end 
by  remaining  at  home ;  but  he  was  a  man  of  sense  and 
determination,  who  would  have  thought  it  unjustifiable 
weakness  to  sacrifice  his  son's  interests  and  his  own  use- 
fulness. He  would  promise,  that  if  all  were  alive  and 
well,  he  would  bring  Maria  back  in  ten  or  twelve  years' 
time  ;  but  he  would  not  sooner  relinquish  his  duties,  and 


THE   YOU-XG   STEP-MOTHER.  209 

he  was  very  reluctant  to  become  engaged  on  such 
terms. 

'  No  one  less  silly  than  poor  Maria  would  have 
thought  of  such  a  proposal,'  was  Mr.  Kendal's  comment 
afterwards  to  his  wife.  '  Twelve  years  !  No  one  would 
be  able  to  live  with  her  by  that  time  ! ' 

i  I  cannot  help  respecting  the  unselfishness,'  said  Al- 
binia. 

1  One-sided  unselfishness,'  quoth  Mr.  Kendal.  *  I  am 
sick  of  the  whole  business  ;  I  wish  I  had  never  interfered. 
I  cannot  get  an  hour  to  myself.' 

He  might  be  excused  for  the  complaint  on  that  day 
of  negotiations  and  counter-negotiations,  which  gave  no 
one  any  rest,  especially  after  Mrs.  Drury  arrived  with  all 
the  rights  of  a  relation,  set  on  making  it  evident,  that 
whoever  was  to  be  charged  with  Mrs.  Meadows,  it  was 
not  herself;  and  enforcing  that  nothing  could  be  more 
comfortable  than  that  Lucy  Kendal  should  set  up  house- 
keeping with  her  dear  grandmamma.  Every  one  gave 
advice,  and  nobody  took  it ;  Mrs.  Meadows  cried  ;  Maria 
grew  hysterical ;  the  Captain  took  up  his  hat  and  walked 
out  of  the  house  ;  and  Albinia  thought  it  would  be  very 
good  in  him  ever  to  venture  into  it  again. 

The  next  morning,  Mr.  Kendal  ordered  his  horse 
early,  and  hastened  his  breakfast ;  told  Albinia  not  to 
wait  dinner  for  him,  and  rode  off  by  one  gate,  without 
looking  behind  him,  as  the  other  opened  to  admit  Captain 
Pringle.  She  marvelled  whither  he  had  fled,  and  thought 
herself  fortunate  in  having  only  two  fruitless  discussions 
in  his  absence.  Not  till  eight  o'clock  did  he  make  his 
appearance,  and  then  it  was  in  an  unhearing,  unseeing 
mood,  so  that  nothing  could  be  extracted,  except  that  he 
did  not  want  any  dinner ;  and  it  was  not  till  late  in  the 
evening  that  he  abruptly  announced,  '  Lucy  is  coming 
home  on  Wednesday.  Colonel  Bury  will  bring  her  to 
Woodside.' 

'  What !  have  you  heard  from  Maurice  ? ' 

1  No  ;  I  have  been  at  Fairmead.' 

<  You  !     To-day  ?     How  was  Winifred  ? ' 

'  Better — I  believe.' 


210  THE  YOUNG   STEP-AIOTHEE. 

1  How  does  she  like  the  governess  1 ' 

'  I  did  not  hear.' 

Gradually  something  oozed  out  about  Lucy  having 
been  happy  and  valuable ;  and  after  Sophy  had  gone  to 
bed,  he  inquired  how  the  courtship  was  going  on  ? 

'  Worse  than  ever/  Albinia  said. 

'  I  suppose  it  must  end  in  this  ?  ' 

1  In  what  ?  ' 

I  If  there  is  no  more  satisfactory  arrangement,  I  sup- 
pose we  must  receive  Mrs.  Meadows.' 

If  Albinia  could  but  have  heard  what  a  scolding  her 
brother  was  undergoing  from  his  vivacious  wife  ! 

*  As  if  poor  Albinia  had  not  enough  on  her  hands ! 
Of  all  inmates  in  the  word  !  When  Mr.  Kendal  himself 
did  not  like  it !  Well !  Maurice  would  certainly  have 
advised  Sinbad  to  request  the  honour  of  taking  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea  for  a  promenade  a  cheval.  There  was  an 
end  of  Albinia.  There  would  never  be  any  room  in  her 
house,  and  she  would  never  be  able  to  come  from  home. 
And  after  having  seen  her  worked  to  death,  he  to  advise 1 

I I  did  not  advise,  I  only  listened.  What  he  came  for 
was  to  silence  his  conscience  and  his  wife  by  saying, 
"  Your  brother  thinks  it  out  of  the  question."  Now  to 
this  my  conscience  would  not  consent.' 

'  More  shame  for  it,  then  ! ' 

1 1  could  not  say  I  thought  these  two  people's  happi- 
ness shoud  be  sacrificed,  or  the  poor  old  woman  left  des- 
olate. Albinia  has  spirits  and  energy  for  a  worse  inflic- 
tion, and  Edmund  Kendal  himself  is  the  better  for  every 
shock  to  his  secluded  habits.  If  it  is  a  step  I  would 
never  dare  advise,  still  less  would  I  dare  dissuade.' 

'  Well !  I  thought  Mr.  Kendal  had  more  sense,' 

'  Ay,  nothing  is  so  provoking  as  to  see  others  more 
unselfish  than  ourselves.' 

'  All  I  have  to  say,'  concluded  Mrs.  Ferrars,  walking 
off,  '  is,  I  wish  there  was  a  law  against  people  going  and 
marrying  two  wives.' 

•  Albinia  was  in  no  haste  to  profit  by  her  husband's 
consent  to  her  proposal.  The  more  she  revolved  it,  the 
more  she  foresaw  the  discomfort  for  all  parties.    She  made 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-1I0THEE.  211 

every  effort  to  devise  the  '  more  satisfactory  arrangement,' 
but  nothing  would  occur.  The  Drurys  would  not  help, 
and  the  poor  old  lady  could  not  be  left  alone.  Her  maid 
Betty,  who  had  become  necessary  to  her  comfort,  was 
not  a  trustworthy  person,  and  could  not  be  relied  on, 
either  for  honesty,  or  for  not  leaving  her  mistress  too 
long  alone  ;  and  when  the  notion  was  broached  of  board- 
ing Mrs.  Meadows  with  some  family  in  the  place,  the 
conviction  arose,  that  when  she  had  grandchildren,  there 
was  no  reason  for  leaving  her  to  strangers. 

Finally,  the  proposal  was  made,  and  as  instantly  re- 
jected by  Maria.  It  was  very  kind,  but  her  mother 
could  never  be  happy  at  Willow  Lawn,  never  ;  and  the 
tone  betrayed  some  injury  at  such  a  thing  being  thought 
possible.  But  just  as  the  Kendals  had  begun  to  rejoice  at 
having  cleared  their  conscience  at  so  slight  a  cost,  Captain 
Pringle  and  Miss  Meadows  made  their  appearance,  and 
Maria  presently  requested  that  Mrs.  Kendal  would  allow 
her  to  say  a  few  words. 

1 1  am  afraid  you  thought  me  very  rude  and  ungrate- 
ful,' she  began,  '  but  the  truth  was,  I  did  not  think  dear 
mamma  would  ever  bear  to  live  here,  my  poor  dear  sister 
and  all ;  but  since  that  I  have  been  talking  it  over  with 
the  dear  Captain — thinks  that  since  you  are  so  kind,  and 
dear  Edmund — more  than  I  could  ever  have  dared  to  ex- 
pect— that  I  could  not  do  better  than  just  to  sound 
mamma.' 

There  was  still  another  vicissitude.  Mrs.  Meadows 
would  not  hear  of  being  thrust  on  any  one,  and  was  cer- 
tain that  Maria  had  extorted  an  invitation ;  she  would 
never  be  a  burden  upon  any  one ;  young  people  liked 
company  and  amusement,  and  she  was  an  old  woman  in 
every  one's  way  ;  she  wished  she  were  in  her  coffin  with 
poor  dear  Mr.  Meadows,  which  would  have  settled  it  all. 
Maria  fell  back  into  the  depths  of  despair,  and  all  was  lu- 
gubrious, till  Mr.  Kendal  in  the  most  tender  and  gentle 
manner,  expressed  his  hopes  that  Mrs.  Meadows  would 
consider  the  matter,  telling  her  that  his  wife  and  children 
would  esteem  it  a  great  privilege  to  attend  on  her,  and 
that  he  should  be  very  grateful  if  she  would  allow  them 


212  THE   YOUNG   STEP-3I0THEE. 

to  try  to  supply  Maria's  place.  And  Albinia,  in  her 
coaxing  tone,  described  the  arrangement ;  how  the  old 
furniture  should  stand  in  the  sitting-room,  and  how  Lucy- 
would  attend  to  her  carpet-work,  and  what  nice  walks  the 
sunny  garden  would  afford,  and  how  pleasant  it  would  be 
not  to  have  the  long  hill  between  them,  till  grandmamma 
forgot  all  her  scruples  in  the  fascination  of  that  sweet 
face  and  caressing  manner  ;  she  owned  that  poor  old 
Willow  Lawn  always  was  like  home,  and  finally  prom- 
ised to  come.  Before  the  evening  was  over  the  wedding- 
day  was  fixed. 

What  Sophy  briefly  termed  '  the  fuss  about  Aunt 
Maria,'  had  been  so  tedious,  that  it  almost  dispelled  all 
poetical  ideas  of  courtship.  If  Captain  Pringle  had  been 
drowned  at  sea,  and  Aunt  Maria  pined  herself  into  her 
grave,  it  would  have  been  much  more  proper  and  affect- 
ing. 

Sophy  heard  of  the  arrangement  without  remark,  and 
quietly  listened  to  Albinia's  explanation  that  she  was  not 
to  be  sent  up  to  the  attics,  but  was  to  inhabit  the  spare 
room,  which  was  large  enough  to  serve  her  for  a  sitting- 
room.  But  in  the  evening  Mr.  Kendal  happened  in  her 
absence  to  take  up  the  book  which  she  had  been  reading, 
and  did  not  perceive  at  once  on  her  entrance  that  she 
wanted  it.  When  he  did  so,  he  yielded  it  with  a  few 
kind  words  of  apology,  but  this  vexation  had  been  suffi- 
cient to  bring  down  the  thunder-cloud  which  had  been 
lowering  since  the  morning.  There  were  no  signs  of 
clearance  the  next  day,  but  Albinia  had  too  much  upon 
her  hands  to  watch  the  symptoms,  and  was  busy  making 
measurements  for  the  furniture  in  the  morning-room  when 
Mr.  Kendal  came  in. 

'  I  have  been  thinking,'  he  said,  '  that  it  is  a  pity  to 
disturb  this  room.  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Meadows  would  pre- 
fer that  below-stairs.  It  used  to  be  her  parlour,  where  she 
always  sat  when  I  first  knew  the  house.' 

'  The  dining-room  1     How  could  we  spare  that  ? ' 
.  '  No,  the  study.' 

Albinia  remained  transfixed. 

'  We  could  put  the  books  here  and  in  the  dining- 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  213 

room,'  he  continued,  '  until  next  spring,  when,  as  your 
brother  said,  we  can  build  a  new  wing  on  the  drawing- 
room  side.' 

'  And  what  is  to  become  of  you  ?  '  she  continued. 

'  Perhaps  you  will  admit  me  here  ? '  he  said,  smiling, 
for  he  was  pleased  with  himself.  '  Turn  me  out  when  1 
am  in  the  way.' 

1  Oh  !  Edmund,  how  delightful !  See,  we  shall  put 
your  high  desk  under  the  window,  and  your  chair  in  your 
own  corner.  This  will  be  the  pleasantest  place  in  the 
house,  with  you  and  your  books  !  Dear  Winifred  !  she 
did  me  one  of  her  greatest  services  when  she  made  me 
keep  this  room  habitable  ! ' 

I  And  I  think  Sophy  will  not  object  to  give  up  her 
present  little  room  for  my  dressing-room.  Shall  you, 
my  dear  ? '  said  he,  anxious  to  judge  of  her  temper  by 
her  reply. 

I I  don't  care,'  she  said  ;  '  I  don't  want  any  difference 
made  to  please  me  ;  I  think  that  weak.' 

'  Sophy  ! '  began  Albinia,  indignantly,  but  Mr.  Ken- 
dal stopped  her,  and  made  her  come  down,  to  consider  of 
the  proposal  in  the  study. 

That  study,  once  an  oppressive  rival  to  the  bride,  now 
not  merely  vanquished,  but  absolutely  abandoned  by  its 
former  captive  ! 

'  Don't  say  anything  to  her,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  as  they 
went  downstairs.  '  Of  course  her  spirits  are  one  consid- 
eration, but  were  it  otherwise,  I  could  not  see  you  give 
up  your  private  room.' 

'  It  is  very  kind  in  you,  but  indeed  I  can  spare  mine 
better  than  you  can,'  said  Albinia.  '  I  am  afraid  you 
will  never  feel  out  of  the  whirl.' 

1  Yours  would  be  a  loss  to  us  all,''  said  Mr.  Kendal. 
'  The  more  inmates  there  are  in  a  house,  the  more  need- 
ful to  have  them  well  assorted.' 

e  Just  so  ;  and  that  makes  me  afraid — ' 

'  Of  me  ?  No,  Albinia,  I  will  try  not  to  be  a  check 
on  your  spirits.' 

'  You  !     Oh  !  I  meant  that  we  should  disturb  you.' 

'  You  never  disturb  me,  Albinia ;  and  it  is  not  what 


214  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

it  was  when  the  children's  voices  were  untrained  and  un- 
subdued.' 

'  I  can't  say  much  for  Master  Maurice's  voice.' 

He  smiled ;  he  had  never  yet  found  those  joyous 
notes  cle  tro]),  and  he  continued,  '  Your  room  is  of  value 
and  use  to  us  all ;  mine  has  been  of  little  benefit  to  me, 
and  none  to  any  one  else.  I  wish  I  could  as  easily  leave 
behind  me  all  the  habits  I  have  fostered  there.' 

*  Edmund,  it  is  too  good !  When  poor  Sophy  re- 
covers her  senses  she  will  feel  it,  for  I  believe  that  morn- 
ing-room would  have  been  a  great  loss  to  her.' 

1  It  was  too  much  to  ask  in  her  present  state."  I  should 
have  come  to  the  same  conclusion  without  her  showing 
how  much  this  plan  cost  her,  for  nothing  can  be  plainer 
than  that  while  she  continues  subject  to  these  attacks,  she 
must  have  some  retreat.' 

'Yet,'  ventured  Albinia, '  if  you  think  solitude  did  you 
no  good,  do  you  think  letting  these  fits  have  their  swing 
is  good  for  Sophy  ? ' 

'  I  cannot  drive  her  about !  They  must  not  be  harshly 
treated,'  he  answered  quickly.  '  Eesistance  can  only 
come  from  within ;  compulsion  is  worse  than  useless. 
Poor  child,  it  is  piteous  to  watch  that  state  of  dull  mis- 
ery !  On  other  grounds,  I  am  convinced  this  is  the  best 
plan.  The  communication  with  the  offices  will  prevent 
that  maid  from  being  always  on  the  stairs.  Mrs.  Mead- 
ows will  have  her  own  visitors  more  easily,  and  will  get 
out  of  doors  sooner,  and  I  think  she  will  be  better 
pleased.' 

'  Yes,  it  will  be  a  much  better  plan  for  every  one  but 
Mr.  Kendal  himself,'  said  Albinia;  'and  if  he  can  be 
happy  with  us,  we  shall  be  all  the  happier.  So,  this  was 
the  old  sitting-room  ! ' 

'  Yes,  I  knew  them  first  here,'  he  said.  '  It  used  to 
be  cheerful  then,  and  I  dare  say  you  can  make  it  the  same 
again.  We  must  dismantle  it  before  Mrs.  Meadows  and 
Maria  come  to  see  it,  or  it  will  remind  them  of  nothing 
but  the  days  when  I  was  recovering,  and  anything  but 
grateful  for  their  attention.  Yes,'  he  added, '  poor  Mrs. 
Meadows  bore  most  gently  and  tenderly  with  a  long 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK.  215 

course  of  moroseness.  I  am  glad  to  have  it  in  my  power 
to  make  any  sort  of  amends,  though  it  is  chiefly  through 
you.' 

Albinia  might  well  be  very  happy  !  It  was  her  mo- 
ment of  triumph,  and  whatever  might  be  her  fears  for  the 
future,  and  uneasiness  at  Sophy's  discontent,  nothing  could 
take  away  the  pleasure  of  finding  herself  deliberately  pre- 
ferred to  the  study. 

Sophy  did  not  fail  to  make  another  protest,  and  when 
told  that '  it  was  not  solely  on  her  account,'  the  shame  of 
having  fancied  herself  so  important,  rendered  her  ill- 
humour  still  more  painful  and  deplorable.  It  was  vain 
to  consult  her  about  the  arrangements,  she  would  not 
care  about  anything,  except  that  by  some  remarkable 
effect  of  her  perverse  condition,  she  had  been  seized  with 
a  penchant  for  maize  colour  and  blue  for  the  bridesmaids, 
and  was  deeply  offended  when  Albinia  represented  that 
they  would  look  like  a  procession  of  macaws,  and  her 
aunt  declared  that  Sophy  herself  would  be  the  most  sacri- 
ficed by  such  colours.  She  made  herself  so  grim  that 
Maria  broke  up  the  consultation  by  saying  good-humour- 
edly,  '  Yes,  we  will  settle  it  when  Lucy  comes  home.' 

'  Yes,'  muttered  Sophy,  '  Lucy  is  ready  for  any  sort 
of  nonsense.' 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal  went  to  Woodside  to  meet 
Lucy,  hoping  that  solitude  would  be  beneficial.  Albinia 
grieved  at  the  manifestations  of  these,  her  sullen  fits,  if 
only  because  they  made  Lucy  feel  herself  superior.  In 
truth,  Lucy  was  superior  in  temper,  amiability,  and  all 
the  qualities  that  smooth  the  course  of  life,  and  it  was 
very  pleasant  to  greet  her  pretty  bright  face,  so  full  of 
animation. 

'  Dear  grandmamma  going  to  live  with  us  ?  Oh,  how 
nice  !  I  can  always  take  care  of  her  when  you  are  busy, 
mamma.' 

That  accommodating  spirit  was  absolute  refreshment, 
and  long  before  Albinia  reached  home  the  task  of  keeping 
the  household  contented  seemed  many  degrees  easier. 

A  grand  wedding  '  was  expected,'  so  all  the  Bayford 
flys  were  bespoken  three  deep,  a  cake  was  ordered  from 


216  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

Gunter,  ana  so  many  invitations  sent  out,  that  Albinia 
speculated  how  all  were  to  come  alive  out  of  the  little 
dining-room. 

And  Mr.  Kendal  the  presiding  gentleman  ! 

He  had  hardly  seemed  aware  of  his  impending  fate 
till  the  last  evening,  when,  as  the  family  were  separating 
at  night,  he  sighed  disconsolately,  and  said, '  I  am  as  bad 
as  you  are,  Sophy.' 

It  awoke  her  first  comfortable  smile. 

Experience  had,  however,  shown  him  that  such  occa- 
sions might  be  survived,  and  he  was  less  to  be  pitied 
than  his  daughter,  who  felt  as  if  she  and  her  great  brown 
face  would  be  the  mark  of  all  beholders.  Poor  Sophy  ! 
all  scenes  were  to  her  like  daguerreotypes  in  a  bad  light ; 
she  saw  nothing  but  herself  distorted  ! 

And  yet  she  was  glad  that  the  period  of  anticipation 
had  consumed  itself  and  its  own  horrors,  and  found  her- 
self not  insensible  to  the  excitement  of  the  occasion. 
Lucy  was  joyous  beyond  description,  looking  very  pretty, 
and  solicitously  decorating  her  sister,  while  both  bestowed 
the  utmost  rapture  on  their  step-mother's  appearance. 

Having  learnt  at  last  what  Bayfbrd  esteemed  a  com- 
pliment, she  had  commissioned  her  London  aunts  to  send 
her  what  she  called  '  an  unexceptionable  garment,'  and  so 
well  did  they  fulfil  their  orders,  that  not  only  did  her 
little  son  scream,  '  Mamma,  pretty,  pretty  ! '  and  Gilbert 
stand  transfixed  with  admiration,  but  it  called  forth  Mr. 
Kendal's  first  personal  remark,  '  Albinia,  you  look  re- 
markably well,'  and  Mrs.  Meadows  reckoned  among  the 
honours  clone  to  her  Maria,  that  Mrs.  Kendal  wore  a 
beautiful  silk  dress,  and  a  lace  bonnet,  sent  down  on  pur- 
pose from  London ! 

Maria  Meadows  made  a  very  nice  bride,  leaning  on 
her  brother-in-law,  and  not  more  agitated  than  became  her 
well.  The  haggard  restless  look  had  long  been  gone,  re- 
pose had  taken  away  the  lean  sharpness  of  countenance, 
the  really  pretty  features  had  fair  play,  and  she  was  as- 
tonishingly like  her  niece  Lucy,  and  did  not  look  much 
older.  Her  bridegroom  was  so  beaming  and  benignant, 
that  it  might  fairly  be  hoped  that  even  if  force  of  habit 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  217 

should  bring  back  fretfulness,  he  had  a  stock  of  happiness 
sufficient  for  both.  The  chairs  were  jammed  so  tight 
round  the  table,  that  it  was  by  a  desperate  struggle  that 
people  took  their  seats,  and  Mr.  Dusautoy's  conversation 
was  a  series  of  apologies  for  being  unable  to  keep  his  el- 
bows out  of  his  neighbour's  way  while  carving  ;  and  poor 
Sophy,  whose  back  was  not  two  feet'  from  the  fire,  was 
soon  obliged  to  retreat.  She  had  gained  the  door  before 
any  one  perceived  her,  and  then  her  brother  and  sister 
both  followed  ;  Albinia  was  obliged  to  leave  her  to  their 
care,  being  in  the  innermost  recesses,  where  moving  was 
impossible. 

There  was  not  much  the  matter,  she  only  wanted  rest, 
and  Gilbert  undertook  to  see  her  safely  home. 

'  I  shall  be  heartily  glad  to  get  away,'  he  said.  '  There 
is  no  breathing  in  there,  and  they'll  begin  talking  the  most 
intolerable  nonsense  presently.  Besides,  I  want  to  be  at 
home  to  take  baby  down  to  the  gate  to  halloo  at  the  four 
white  horses  from  the  King's  Head.    Come  along,  Sophy.' 

'  Mind  you  don't  make  her  walk  too  fast/  said  the 
careful  Lucy,  '  and  take  care  how  you  take  off  your  mus- 
lin, Sophy  ;  you  had  better  go  to  the  nursery  for  help.' 

Gilbert  did  not  seem  inclined  to  hurry  his  sister  as 
they  came  near  Madame  Belmarche's.  He  lingered,  and 
presently  said,  '  Should  you  be  too  tired  to  come  in  here 
for  a  moment  ?  it  was  an  intolerable  shame  that  none  of 
them  were  asked.' 

'  Mamma  did  beg  for  Genevieve,  but  there  was  so  lit- 
tle room,  and  the  Drurys  did  not  like  it.  Mrs.  Drury 
said  it  would  only  be  giving  her  a  taste  for  things  above 
her  station.' 

'  Then  Mrs.  Drury  should  never  come  out  of  the  scul- 
lery. I  am  sure  she  looks  as  if  her  station  was  to  black 
the  kettles  ! '  cried  Gilbert,  with  some  domestic  confusion 
in  his  indignation.  '  Didn't  she  look  like  a  housekeeper 
with  her  mistress's  things  on  by  mistake  ? ' 

1  She  did  not  look  like  mamma,  certainly,'  said  Sophy. 
*  Mamma  looked  no  more  aware  that  she  had  on  those 
pretty  things  than  if  she  had  been  in  her  old  grey — ' 

'  Mamma — yes — Mrs.  Drury  might  try  seventy  years 
10 


218  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

to  look  like  mamma,  or  Genevieve  either  !  Put  Gene- 
vieve into  satin  or  into  brown  holland,  you  couldn't  help 
her  looking  ten  times  more  the  lady  than  Mrs.  Drury 
ever  will !  But  come  in  ;  I  have  got  a  bit  of  the  cake  for 
them  here,  and  they  will  like  to  see  you  all  figged  out,  as 
they  have  missed  all  the  rest  of  the  show.  Aunt  Maria 
might  have  cared  for  her  old  mistress  ! ' 

Sophy  wished  to  be  amiable,  and  refrained  from  ob- 
jecting. 

It  was  a  holiday  in  honour  of  cette  chere  Sieve  of  five 
and  twenty  years  since,  and  the  present  pupils  were  from 
their  several  homes  watching  for  the  first  apparition  of 
the  four  greys  from  the  King's  Head,  with  the  eight  white 
satin  rosettes  at  their  eight  ears. 

Madame  Belmarche  and  her  daughter  were  discovered 
in  the  parlour,  cooking  with  a  stewpan  over  the  fire  a  con- 
coction which  Sophy  guessed  to  be  a  conserve  of  the  rose- 
leaves  yearly  begged  of  the  pupils,  which  were  chiefly  use- 
ful as  serving  to  be  boiled  up  at  any  leisure  moment,  to 
make  a  cosmetic  for  Mademoiselle's  complexion.  She 
had  diligently  used  it  these  forty-five  years,  but  the  effect 
was  not  encouraging,  as  brown,  wrinkled,  with  her  frizzled 
front  awry,  with  not  stainless  white  apron,  and  a  long 
pewter  spoon,  she  turned  round  to  confront  the  visitors 
in  their  wedding  finery. 

But  what  Frenchwoman  ever  was  disconcerted 7 
Away  went  the  spoon,  forward  she  sprang,  both  hands 
outstretched,  and  her  little  black  eyes  twinkling  with 
pleasure.  '  Ah  !  but  this  is  goodness  itself,'  said  she,  in 
the  English  wherein  she  flattered  herself  no  French  idiom 
appeared.  '  You  are  come  to  let  us  participate  in  your 
rejoicing.  Let  me  but  summon  Genevieve ;  the  poor 
child  is  at  every  free  moment  trying  to  perfectionate  her 
music  in  the  school-room.' 

Madame  Belmarche  had  arisen  to  receive  the  guests 
with  her  dignified  courtesy  and  heartfelt  felicitations, 
which  were  not  over  when  Genevieve  tripped  in,  all 
freshness  and  grace,  with  her  neat  little  collar,  and  the 
dainty  black  apron  that  so  prettily  marked  her  slender 
waist.     One  moment,  and  she  had  arranged  a  resting- 


THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  219 

place  for  Sophy,  and  as  she  understood  Gilbert's  errand, 
quickly  produced  from  a  corner-cupboard  a  plate,  on 
which  he  handed  it  to  the  two  other  ladies,  who  mean- 
while paid  their  compliments  in  the  most  perfect  style. 

The  history  of  the  morning  was  discussed,  and  Ma- 
dame Belmarche  described  her  sister's  wedding,  and  the 
curiosity  which  she  had  shared  with  the  bride  for  the 
first  sight  of  '  le  fuiurj  when  the  two  sisters  had  been 
brought  from  their  convent  for  the  marriage. 

'  But  how  could  she  get  to  like  him  1 '  cried  Sophy. 

'  My  sister  was  too  well  brought  up  a  young  girl  to 
acknowledge  a  preference,'  replied  Madame  Belmarche. 
'  Ah  !  my  dear,  you  are  English  ;  you  do  not  understand 
these  things.' 

'  No,'  said  Sophy,  '  I  can't  understand  how  people  can 
marry  without  loving.  How  miserable  they  must 
be!' 

1  On  the  contrary,  my  dear,  especially  if  one  continued 
to  live  with  one's  mother.  It  is  far  better  to  earn  the 
friendship  and  esteem  of  a  husband  than  to  see  his  love 
grow  cold.' 

'  And  was  your  sister  happy  ? '  asked  Sophy,  abruptly. 

1  Ah,  my  dear,  never  were  husband  and  wife  more 
attached.  My  brother-in-law  joined  the  army  of  the 
Prince  de  Conde,  and  never  was  seen  after  the  day  of 
Valmy ;  and  my  sister  pined  away  and  died  of  grief. 
My  daughter  and  granddaughter  go  to  the  Catholic  burying- 
ground  at  Hadminster  on  her  fete  day,  to  dress  her  grave 
with  immortelles.' 

Now  Sophy  knew  why  the  strip  of  garden  grew  so 
many  of  the  grey-leaved,  woolly-stemmed  little  yellow- 
and- white  everlasting  flowers.  Good  madame  began  to 
regret  having  saddened  her  on  this  day  of  joy. 

'  Oh  !  no,'  said  Sophy,  '  I  like  sad  things  best.' 

?  Mais  non,  my  child,  that  is  not  the  way  to  go 
through  life,'  said  the  old  lady,  affectionately.  '  Look  at 
me  ;  how  could  I  have  lived  had  I  not  always  turned  to  the 
bright  side  ?  Do  not  think  of  sorrow,  it  is  always  near 
enough.' 

This  conversation  had  made  an  impression  on  Sophy, 


2ViO  THE    YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

who  took  the  first  opportunity  of  expressing  her  indigna- 
tion at  the  system  of  mariages  de  convenance. 

1  And,  mamma,  she  said  if  people  began  with  love,  it 
always  grew  cold.  Now,  has  not  papa  loved  you  better 
and  better  every  day  ? ' 

Albinia  could  not  be  displeased,  though  it  made  her 
blush,  and  she  could  not  answer  such  a  home  push.  '  We 
don't  quite  mean  the  same  things,'  she  said  evasively. 
1  Madame  is  thinking  of  passion,  independent  of  esteem 
or  confidence.  But,  Sophy,  this  is  enough  even  for  a 
wedding-day.  Let  us  leave  it  off  with  our  finery,  and 
resume  daily  life.' 

'  Only  tell  me  one  thing,  mamma.' 

'Well?' 

She  paused  and  brought  it  out  with  an  effort.  It  had 
evidently  occupied  her  for  a  long  time.  *  Mamma,  must 
not  every  one  with  feeling  be  in  love  once  in  their  life  % ' 

4  Well  done,  reserve ! '  thought  Albinia — '  but  she  is  only 
a  child  after  all ;  not  a  blush,  only  those  great  eyes  seem- 
ing ready  to  devour  my  answer.  What  ought  it  to  be  ? 
Whatever  it  is,  she  will  brood  on  it  till  her  time  comes. 
I  must  begin,  or  I  shall  grow  nervous  :  "  Dear  Sophy, 
these  are  not  things  good  to  think  upon.  There  is  quite 
enough  to  occupy  a  Christian  woman's  heart  and  soul 
without  that — no  need  for  her  feelings  to  shrivel  up  for 
want  of  exercise.  No  ;  I  don't  believe  in  the  passion  once 
in  the  life  being  a  fate,  and  pray  don't  you,  my  Sophy, 
or  you  may  make  yourself  very  silly,  or  very  unhappy, 
or  both." ' 

Sophy  drew  up  her  head,  and  her  brown  skin  glowed. 
Albinia  feared  that  she  had  said  the  wrong  thing,  and 
affronted  her,  but  it  was  all  working  in  the  dark. 

At  any  rate  the  sullenness  was  dissipated,  and  there 
were  no  tokens  of  a  recurrence.  Sophy  set  herself  to  find 
ways  of  making  amends  for  the  past,  and  as  soon  as  she 
had  begun  to  do  little  services  for  grandmamma,  she 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  gloomy  anticipations,  even 
while  some  of  them  were  partly  realized.  For  as  it 
would  be  more  than  justice  to  human  nature  to  say  that 
Mrs.  Meadows's  residence  at  Willow  Lawn  was  a  perfect 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  221 

success,  so  it  would  be  less  than  justice  to  call  it  a 
failure. 

To  put  the  darker  side  first.  Grandmamma's  inter- 
est in  life  was  to  know  the  proceedings  of  the  whole 
household,  and  comment  on  each.  Now  Albinia  could 
endure  housewifely  advice,  some  espionage  on  her  ser- 
vants, and  even  counsel  about  her  child ;  but  she  could 
not  away  with  the  anxiety  that  would  never  leave  Sophy 
alone,  tried  to  force  her  sociability,  and  regretted  all 
extra  studies,  unable  to  perceive  the  delicate  treatment 
her  disposition  needed.  And  Sophy,  in  the  intolerance 
of  early  girlhood,  was  wretched  at  hearing  poor  grand- 
mamma's petty  views,  and  narrow,  ignorant  prejudices. 
She  might  resolve  to  be  filial  and  agreeable,  but  too  often 
found  herself  just  achieving  a  moody,  disgusted  silence, 
or  else  bursting  out  with  some  true  but  unbecoming 
reproof. 

On  the  whole,  all  did  well.  Mrs.  Meadows  was 
happy ;  she  enjoyed  the  animation  of  the  larger  party, 
liked  their  cheerful  faces,  grew  fond  of  Maurice,  and  daily 
more  dependent  on  Lucy  and  Mrs.  Kendal.  Probably 
she  had  never  before  had  so  much  of  her  own  way,  and 
her  gentle  placid  nature  was  left  to  rest,  instead  of  being 
constantly  worried.  Her  son-in-law  was  kind  and  gra- 
cious, though  few  words  passed  between  them,  and  he 
gave  her  a  sense  of  protection.  Indeed,  his  patience  and 
good-humour  were  exemplary  ;  he  never  complained  even 
when  he  was  driven  from  the  dining-room  by  the  table- 
cloth, to  find  Maurice  rioting  in  the  morning-room,  and  a 
music-lesson  in  the  drawing-room,  or  still  worse,  when  he 
heard  the  Drurys  everywhere ;  and  he  probably  would 
have  submitted  quietly  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  had  not 
Albinia  insisted  on  bringing  forward  the  plan  of  building. 

When  Captain  and  Mrs.  Pringle  returned  to  Bayford 
to  take  leave,  they  found  grandmamma  so  thoroughly  at 
home,  that  Maria  could  find  no  words  to  express  her  grat- 
itude. Maria  herself  could  hardly  have  been  recognized, 
she  had  grown  so  like  her  husband  in  look  and  manner ! 
If  her  sentences  did  not  always  come  to  their  legitimate 
development,  they  no  longer  seemed  blown  away  by  a 


222  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

frosty  wind,  but  pushed  aside  by  fresh  kindly  impulses ; 
and  her  pride  in  the  Captain,  and  the  rest  in  his  support, 
had  set  her  at  peace  with  all  the  world  and  with  herself. 
A  comfortable,  comely,  happy  matron  was  she,  and  even 
her  few  weeks  beyond  the  precincts  of  Bayford  had  done 
something  to  enlarge  her  mind. 

It  was  as  if  education  had  newly  begun.  The  fixed 
aim,  and  the  union  with  a  practical  man,  had  opened  her 
faculties,  not  deficient  in  themselves,  but  contracted  and 
nipped  by  the  circumstances  which  she  had  not  known 
how  to  turn  to  good  account.  Such  a  fresh  stage  in  mid- 
dle life  comes  to  some  few,  like  the  midsummer  shoot  to 
repair  the  foliage  that  has  suffered  a  spring  blight ;  but  it 
cannot  be  reckoned  on,  and  Mrs.  Pringle  would  have 
been  a  more  effective  and  self-possessed  woman,  a  better 
companion  to  her  husband,  and  with  more  root  in  herself, 
had  Maria  Meadows  learnt  to  tune  her  nerves  and  her 
temper  in  the  overthrow  of  her  early  hopes. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Maurice  Ferrars  was  a  born  architect,  with  such  a 
love  of  brick  and  mortar,  that  it  was  meritorious  in  him 
not  to  have  overbuilt  Fairmead  parsonage.  With  the 
sense  of  giving  him  an  agreeable  holiday,  his  sister  wrote 
to  him  in  February  that  Gilbert's  little  attic  was  at  his 
service  if  he  would  come  and  give  his  counsel  as  to  the 
building  project. 

Mr.  Kendal  disliked  the  trouble  and  disturbance  as 
much  as  Maurice  loved  it ;  but  he  quite  approved  and 
submitted,  provided  they  asked  him  no  questions ;  he 
gave  them  free  leave  to  ruin  him,  and  set  out  to  take 
Sophy  for  a  drive,  leaving  the  brother  and  sister  to  their 
calculations.  Of  ruin,  there  was  not  much  danger  ;  Mr. 
Kendal  had  a  handsome  income,  and  had  always  lived 
within  it ;  and  Albinia's  fortune  had  not  appeared  to  her 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  223 

a  reason  for  increased  expense,  so  there  was  a  sufficient 
sum  in  hand  to  enable  Mr.  Ferrars  to  plan  with  freedom. 
A  new  drawing-room,  looking  southwards,  with  bed- 
rooms over  it,  was  the  matter  of  necessity  ;  and  Albinia 
wished  for  a  bay-window,  and  would  like  to  indulge  Lucy 
by  a  conservatory,  filling  up  the  angle  to  the  east  with 
glass  doors  opening  into  the  drawing-room  and  hall. 
Maurice  drew,  and  she  admired  and  thought  all  so  de- 
lightful, that  she  began  to  be  taken  with  scruples  as  to 
luxury. 

*  No,'  said  Maurice,  '  these  are  not  mere  luxuries. 
You  have  full  means,  and  it  is  a  duty  to  keep  your  house- 
hold fairly  comfortable  and  at  ease.  Crowded  as  you  are 
with  rather  incongruous  elements,  you  are  bound  to  give 
them  space  enough  not  to  clash.' 

'  They  don't  clash,  except  poor  Sophy.  Gilbert  and 
Lucy  are  elements  of  union,  with  more  plaster  of  Paris 
than  stone  in  their  nature.' 

1  Pray,  has  Kendal  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do  with 
Gilbert  ? ' 

'  I  have  heard  nothing  lately  ;  I  hope  he  is  grown  too 
old  for  India.' 

*  Gilbert  is  rather  too  well  off  for  his  good,'  said  Mr. 
Ferrars ;  '  the  benefit  of  a  profession  is  not  evident 
enough.' 

'  I  know  what  I  wish  !  If  he  could  but  be  Mr.  Dusau- 
toy's  curate,  in  five  or  six  years'  time,  what  glorious 
things  we  might  do  for  the  parish  ! ' 

<  Eh !  is  that  his  wish  ? ' 

'  I  have  sometimes  hoped  that  his  mind  is  taking  that 
turn.  He  is  ready  to  help  in  anything  for  the  poor  peo- 
ple. Once  he  told  me  he  never  wished  to  look  beyond 
Bay  ford  for  happiness  or  occupation ;  but  I  did  not  like 
to  draw  him  out,  because  of  his  father's  plans.  Why, 
what  have  you  drawn  ?     The  almshouses  ? ' 

'  I  could  do  no  other  when  I  was  improving  Gilbert's 
house  for  him.' 

'  That  would  be  the  real  improvement !  How  pretty 
I  will  keep  them  for  him.' 

The  second  post  came  in,  bringing  a  letter  from  Gil- 


224  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

bert  to  his  father,  and  Albinia  was  so  much  surprised, 
that  her  brother  asked  whether  Gilbert  were  one  of  the 
boys  who  only  write  to  their  father  with  a  reason. 

1  He  can  write  more  freely  to  me,'  said  Albinia ;  '  and 
it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid 
of  anything  wrong,  but  perhaps  he  may  be  making  some 
proposal  for  the  future.  I  want  to  know  how  he  is. 
Fancy  his  being  so  foolish  as  to  go  out  bathing.  I  am 
afraid  of  his  colds.' 

Many  times  during  the  consultation  did  Mr.  Ferrars 
detect  Albinia's  eye  stealing  wistfully  towards  that '  E. 
Kendal,  Esq. ; '  and  when  the  proper  owner  came  in,  he 
was  evidently  as  much  struck,  for  he  paused,  as  if  in 
dread  of  opening  the  letter.  Her  eyes  were  on  his  coun- 
tenance as  he  read,  and  did  not  gather  much  consolation. 
1 1  am  afraid  this  is  serious,'  at  last  he  said. 

'  His  cold  ?  '  exclaimed  Albinia. 

'Yes,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  reading  aloud  sentence  by 
sentence,  with  gravity  and  consideration. 

'  I  do  not  wish  to  alarm  Mrs.  Kendal,  and  therefore 
address  myself  at  once  to  you,  for  I  do  not  think  it  right 
to  keep  you  in  ignorance  that  I  have  had  some  of  the  old 
symptoms.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  any  one  uneasy  about 
me,  and  I  may  have  made  light  of  the  cold  I  caught  a 
month  since ;  but  I  cannot  conceal  from  myself  that  I 
have  much  painful  cough,  an  inclination  to  shortness  of 
breath,  and  pain  in  the  back  and  shoulders,  especially 
after  long  reading  or  writing.  I  thought  it  right  to  speak 
to  Mr.  Downton,  but  people  in  high  health  can  understand 
nothing  short  of  a  raging  fever ;  however,  at  last  he  called 
in  the  parish  surgeon,  a  stupid,  ignorant  fellow,  who  un- 
derstands my  case  no  more  than  his  horse,  and  treats  me 
with  hyoscyamus,  as  if  it  were  a  mere  throat-cough.  I 
thought  it  my  duty  to  speak  openly,  since,  though  I  am 
quite  aware  that  circumstances  make  little  difference  in 
constitutional  cases,  I  know  you  and  dear  Mrs.  Kendal 
will  wish  that  all  possible  means  should  be  used,  and  I 
think  it — 

Mr.  Kendal  broke  down,  and  handed  the  letter  to  his 
wife,  who  proceeded, 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  225 

c  I  think  it  best  you  should  be  prepared  for  the  worst, 
as  I  wish  and  endeavour  to  be  ;  and  truly  I  see  so  much 
trial  and  disappointment  in  the  course  of  life  before  me, 
that  it  would  hardly  be  the  worst  to  me,  except — 

That  sentence  finished  Albinia's  voice,  and  stealing  her 
hand  into  her  husband's,  she  read  on  in  silence, 

'  for  the  additional  sorrow  to  you,  and  my  grief  at  bring- 
ing pain  to  my  more  than  mother,  but  she  has  long 
known  of  the  presentiment  that  has  always  hung  over 
me,  and  will  be  the  better  prepared  for  its  realization. 
If  it  would  be  any  satisfaction  to  you,  I  could  easily  take 
ticket,  and  go  up  to  London  to  see  any  physician  you 
would  prefer.  I  could  go  with  Price,  who  is  going  for 
his  sister's  birthday,  and  I  could  sleep  at  his  father's 
house ;  but,  in  that  case,  I  should  want  three  pounds 
journey  money,  and  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would 
be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  have  a  sovereign  in  advance  of 
my  allowance,  as  Price  knows  of  a  capital  secondhand 
bow  and  arrows.  With  my  best  love  to  all, 
1  Your  affectionate  son, 

'  Gilbert  Kendal.' 

Albinia  held  the  letter  to  her  brother,  to  whom  she 
looked  for  something  cheering,  but,  behold  !  a  smile  was 
gaining  uncontrollably  on  the  muscles  of  his  cheeks, 
though  his  lips  strove  hard  to  keep  closely  shut.  She 
would  not  look  at  him,  and  turning  to  her  husband,  ex- 
claimed, '  We  will  take  him  to  London  ourselves  ! ' 

'  I  am  afraid  that  would  be  inconvenient,'  observed 
Maurice. 

'  That  would  not  signify,'  continued  Albinia  ;  '  I  must 
hear  myself  what  is  thought  of  him,  and  how  I  am  to 
nurse  him.  Oh  !  taking  it  in  time,  dear  Edmund,  we 
need  not  be  so  much  afraid !  Maurice  will  not  mind 
making  his  visit  another  time.' 

1  I  only  meant  inconvenient  to  the  birthday  party,' 
drily  said  her  brother. 

I  Maurice  ! '  cried  she,  '  you  don't  know  the  boy  ! ' 

I I  have  no  doubt  that  he  has  a  cold.' 

'  And  I  know  there  is  a  great  deal  more  the  matter  ! ' 

10* 


226  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

cried  Albinia.  '  We  have  let  him  go  away  to  be  neg- 
lected and  badly  treated !  My  poor,  dear  boy  !  Ed- 
mund, I  will  fetch  him  home  to-morrow.' 

'  You  had  better  send  me,'  said  Maurice,  mischiev- 
ously, for  he  saw  he  was  diminishing  Mr.  Kendal's  alarm, 
and  had  a  brotherly  love  of  teasing  Albinia,  and  seeing 
how  pretty  she  looked  with  her  eyes  flashing  through 
wrathful  tears,  and  her  foot  patting  impetuously  on  the 
carpet. 

'  You  !  '  she  cried  ;  '  you  don't  believe  in  him  !  You 
fancy  all  boys  are  made  of  iron  and  steel — you  would 
only  laugh  at  him — you  made  us  send  him  there — I 
wish — ' 

'  Gently,  gently,  my  dear  Albinia,'  said  her  husband, 
dismayed  at  her  vehemence,  just  when  it  most  amused 
her  brother.  '  You  cannot  expect  Maurice  to  feel  exactly 
as  we  do,  and  I  confess  that  I  have  much  hope  that  this 
alarm  may  be  more  than  adequate.' 

'  He  thinks  it  is  all  a  scheme  ! '  said  Albinia,  in  a  tone 
of  great  injury. 

'  No,  indeed,  Albinia,'  answered  her  brother,  seriously  ; 
'  I  fully  believe  that  Gilbert  imagines  all  that  he  tells 
you  ;  but  you  cannot  suppose  that  either  the  tutor  or 
doctor  could  fail  to  see  if  he  were  so  very  ill.'- 

'  Certainly  not,'  assented  Mr.  Kendal. 

'  And  low  spirits  are  more  apt  to  accompany  a  slight 
ailment,  than  such  an  illness  as  you  apprehend.' 

'  1  believe  you  are  right,'  said  Mr.  Kendal.  '  Where 
is  the  letter  ?  ' 

Albinia  did  not  like  it  to  come  under  discussion,  but 
could  not  withhold  it,  and  as  she  read  it  again,  she  felt 
that  neither  Maurice  nor  her  cousin  Fred  could  have  writ- 
ten the  like  ;  but  she  was  only  the  more  impelled  to  do 
battle,  and  when  she  came  to  the  unlucky  conclusion,  she 
exclaimed,  '  I  am  sure  that  was  an  after-thought.  I  dare 
say  Price  asked  him  while  he  was  writing.' 

1  What's  this  1 '  asked  Mr.  Kendal,  coming  to  the 
'  presentiment.' 

She  hesitated,  afraid  both  of  him  and  of  Maurice,  but 
there  was   no   alternative.     '  Poor  Gilbert ! '    she   said. 


THE    YOUXG    STEP-MOTHER.  227 

1 It  was  a  cry  or  call  from  his  brother  just  at  last.  It  has 
left  a  very  deep  impression.' 

'  Indeed  !  '  said  his  father,  much  moved.  '  Yes,  Ed- 
mund gave  a  cry  such  as  was  not  to  be  forgotten,'  and 
the  sigh  told  how  it  had  haunted  his  own  pillow  ;  '  but  I 
had  not  thought  that  Gilbert  was  in  a  condition  to  notice 
it.     Did  he  mention  it  to  you  ? ' 

'  Yes,  not  long  after  I  came ;  he  thinks  it  was  a  call, 
and  I  have  never  known  exactly  how  to  deal  with  it.' 

I  It  is  a  case  for  very  tender  handling,'  said  Maurice. 

I I  should  have  desired  him  never  to  think  of  it  again,' 
said  Mr.  Kendal  decidedly.  '  Mere  nonsense  to  dwell  on 
it.  Their  names  were  always  in  Edmund's  mouth,  and  it 
was  nothing  but  accident.  You  should  have  told  him  so, 
Albinia.' 

And  he  walked  out  of  the  room. 

'  Ah  !  it  will  prey  upon  him  now,'  said  Albinia. 

I  Yes  ;  I  thought  he  only  spoke  of  driving  it  away  be- 
cause it  was  what  he  would  like  to  be  able  to  do.  But 
things  do  not  prey  on  people  of  his  age  as  they  do  on 
younger  ones.' 

I I  wonder  if  I  did  right,'  said  Albinia.  '  I  never  liked 
to  ask  you,  though  I  wished  it.  I  could  not  bear  to  treat 
it  as  a  fancy.  How  was  1  to  know,  if  it  may  not  have 
been  intended  to  do  him  good  %  And  you  see  his  father 
says  it  was  very  remarkable.' 

'  Do  you  imagine  that  it  dwells  much  upon  his  mind  1 ' 

*  Not  when  he  is  well — not  when  it  would  do  him 
good,'  said  Albinia ;  '  it  rather  haunts  him  the  instant  he 
is  unwell.' 

'  He  makes  it  a  superstition,  then,  poor  boy !  You 
thought  me  hard  on  him,  Albinia  ;  but  really  I  could  not 
help  being  angry  with  him  for  so  lamentably  frightening 
his  father  and  you.' 

'  Let  us  see  how  he  is  before  you  find  fault  with  him,' 
said  Albinia. 

1  You're  as  bad  as  if  you  were  his  mother,  or  worse  ! ' 
exclaimed  Maurice. 

1  Oh  I  Maurice,  I  can't  help  it !     He  had  no  one  to 


228  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

care  for  him  till  I  came,  and  he  is  such  a  very  dear  fellow 
— he  wants  me  so  much  ! ' 

Mr.  Ferrars  agreed  to  go  with  Mr.  Kendal  to  Traver- 
sham.  He  thought  his  father  would  be  encouraged  by  his 
presence,  and  he  was  not  devoid  of  curiosity.  Albinia 
would  not  hear  of  staying  at  home ;  in  fact,  Maurice 
suspected  her  of  being  afraid  to  trust  Gilbert  to  his 
mercy. 

With  a  trembling  heart  she  left  the  train  at  the  little 
Traversham  station,  making  resolutions  neither  to  be  too 
angry  with  the  negligent  tutor,  nor  to  show  Gilbert  how 
much  importance  she  attached  to  his  illness. 

As  they  walked  into  the  village,  they  heard  a  merry 
clamour  of  tongue,  and  presently  met  five  or  six  boys,  and, 
a  few  paces  behind  them,  Mr.  Downton. 

'  Ah  ! '  he  exclaimed,  <  I  am  glad  you  are  come.  I 
would  have  written  yesterday,  but  that  I  found  your  boy 
had  done  so-  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  him  cheered 
up  about  himself.  I  will  turn  back  with  you.  You  go  on, 
Price.  They  are  setting  out  for  one  of  Hullah's  classes, 
so  we  shall  have  the  house  clear.' 

'  I  hope  there  is  not  much  amiss  ? '  said  Mr.  Kendal. 

*  A  tedious  cold,'  said  the  tutor  ;  *  but  the  doctor  as- 
sures me  that  there  is  nothing  wrong  with  his  chest,  and 
I  do  believe  he  would  not  cough  half  so  much,  if  he  were 
not  always  watching  himself.' 

c  Who  has  been  attending  him  1 ' 

1  Lee,  the  union  doctor ;  a  very  good  man,  with  a 
large  family,'  (Albinia  could  have  beaten  him).  '  In- 
deed,' he  continued,  perceiving  some  dissatisfied  looks,  '  I 
think  you  will  find  that  a  little  change  is  all  that  he 
wants.' 

'  I  hope  you  can  give  a  good  account  of  him  in  other 
respects  ? '  said  Mr.  Kendal. 

'  Oh  !  yes,  in  every  way  ;  he  is  the  most  good-natured 
lad  in  the  world,  and  quite  the  small  boys'  friend. 
Perhaps  he  has  been  a  little  more  sentimental  of  late,  but 
that  may  be  only  from  being  rather  out  of  order.  I'll  call 
him.' 

The  last  words  were  spoken  as  they  entered  the  par- 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  229 

sonage,  where  opening  a  door,  he  said,  *  Here,  Kendal, 
here's  a  new  prescription  for  you.' 

Albinia  had  a  momentary  view  of  a  tabby  cat  and 
kitten,  a  volume  of  poetry,  a  wiry-haired  terrier,  and  Gil- 
bert, all  lying  promiscuously  on  the  hearth-rug,  before 
the  two  last  leaped  up,  the  one  to  bark,  and  the  other  to 
come  forward  with  outstretched  hand  and  glad  counte- 
nance. 

He  looked  flushed  and  languid,  but  the  roaring  fire 
and  close  room  might  account  for  that ;  and  though,  when 
the  subject  was  mentioned,  he  gave  a  short  uncomfortable 
cough,  Albinia's  mind  was  so  far  relieved,  that  she  was  in 
doubt  with  whom  to  be  angry,  and  prepared  to  stand  on 
the  defensive,  should  her  brother  think  him  too  well. 

The  gentlemen  went  away  together,  and  Gilbert,  grasp- 
ing her  hand,  gave  way  to  one  of  his  effusions  of  affection 
— '  So  kind  to  come  to  him — he  knew  he  had  her  to  trust 
to,  whatever  happened' — and  he  leant  his  cheek  on  his 
hand  in  a  melancholy  mood. 

I  Don't  be  so  piteous,  Gibbie,'  she  said.  *  You  were 
quite  right  to  tell  us  you  were  not  well,  only  you  need  not 
have  been  so  very  doleful ;  I  don't  like  papa  to  be  fright- 
ened.' 

I I  thought  it  was  no  use  to  go  on  in  this  way,'  said 
Gilbert,  with  a  cough  ;  '  it  was  the  old  thing  over  again, 
and  nobody  would  believe  I  had  anything  the  matter  with 
me.' 

And  he  commenced  a  formidable  catalogue  of  symp- 
toms which  satisfied  her  that  Maurice  would  think  him 
fully  justified.  Just  at  a  point  where  it  was  not  easy  to 
know  what  next  to  say,  the  kitten  began  to  play  tricks 
with  her  mother's  tail,  and  a  happy  diversion  was  made  ; 
Gilbert  began  to  exhibit  the  various  drolleries  of  the  ani- 
mals, to  explain  the  friendship  between  dog  and  cat,  and 
to  leave  off  coughing  as  he  related  anecdotes  of  their  sa- 
gacity ;  and  finally,  when  the  gentlemen  returned,  laugh- 
ing was  the  first  sound  they  heard,  and  Mrs.  Kendal  was 
found  sitting  on  the  floor  at  play  with  the  live  stock. 

They  had  come  to  fetch  her  to  see  the  church  and 
schools,  and  on  going  out,  she  found  that  Mr.  Ferrars  had 


230  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

moved  and  carried  that  Gilbert  should  be  taken  home  at 
once,  and,  on  the  way,  be  shown  to  a  physician  at  the 
county  town.  From  this  she  gathered  that  Maurice  was 
compassionate,  and  though,  of  course,  he  would  make  no 
such  admission,  she  had  reason  afterwards  to  believe  that 
he  had  shown  Mr.  Downton  that  the  pupils  health  ought 
to  have  met  with  a  shade  more  attention. 

With  Gilbert  wrapped  up  to  "the  tip  of  his  nose,  they 
set  off,  and  found  the  doctor  at  home.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  satisfactory  to  Albinia,  for  it  gave  her  a 
triumph  over  her  brother,  without  too  much  anxiety  for  the 
future.  The  physician  detected  the  injury  to  the  lungs 
left  by  an  attack  that  the  boy  had  suffered  from  in  his  first 
English  winter,  and  had  scarcely  outgrown  when  Albinia 
first  knew  him.  The  recent  cold  had  so  far  renewed  the 
evil,  that  though  no  disease  actually  existed,  the  cough 
must  be  watched,  and  exposure  avoided ;  in  fact,  a  license 
for  petting  to  any  extent  was  bestowed,  and  therewith 
every  hope  of  recovery. 

Albinia  and  her  son  sat  in  their  corners  of  the  carriage 
in  secret  satisfaction,  while  Mr.  Kendal  related  the  doc- 
tor's opinion  to  Mr.  Ferrars ;  but  one  of  them,  at  least, 
was  unprepared  for  the  summing-up.  '  Under  the  circum- 
stances, Gilbert  is  most  fortunate.  A  few  years  in  his 
native  climate  will  quite  set  him  up.' 

{  Oh  !  but  he  is  too  old  for  Haileybury,'  burst  out  Al- 
binia, in  her  consternation. 

'  Xearly  old  enough  for  John  Kendal's  bank,  eh,  Gil- 
bert ? ' 

'  Oh  ! '  cried  Albinia,  '  pray  don't  let  us  talk  of  that 
while  poor  Gilbert  is  so  ill.' 

'  Hm ! '  said  Mr.  Kendal  with  interrogative  surprise, 
almost  displeasure,  and  no  more  was  said. 

Albinia  felt  guilty,  as  she  remembered  that  she  had  no 
more  intended  to  betray  her  dislike  to  the  scheme,  than 
to  gratify  Gilbert  by  calling  him  'so  ill.'  Aristocratic 
and  military,  she  had  no  love  for  the  moneyed  interest,  and 
had  so  sedulously  impressed  on  her  friends  that  Mr.  Ken- 
dal had  been  in  the  Civil  Service,  and  quite  unconnected 
with  the  bank,  that  Mr.  Ferrars  had  told  her  she  thought 


THE    TOUXG    STEP-MOTHEE.  231 

his  respectability  depended  on  it ;  and  she  was  ashamed 
that  her  brother  should  hear  her  give  way  again  so  fool- 
ishly to  the  weakness, 

Gilbert  became  the  most  talkative  as  they  drew  near 
home,  and  was  the  first  to  spring  out  and  open  the  hall 
door,  displaying  his  two  sisters  harnessed  tandem-fashion 
with  packthread,  and  driven  at  full  speed  by  little  Maurice, 
armed  with  the  veritable  carriage  whip  !  The  next  mo- 
ment it  was  thrown  down,  with  a  rapturous  shout,  and 
Maurice  was  lost  to  everything  but  his  brother ! 

i  Oh  !  girls,  how  could  you  let  him  serve  you  so  ?  '  be- 
gan the  horrified  Albinia.  '  Sophy  will  be  laid  up  for  a 
week ! ' 

'  Xever  mind,'  said  Sophy,  dropping  on  a  chair. 
1  Poor  little  fellow,  he  wished  it  so  much  ! ' 

'  I  tried  to  stop  her,  mamma,'  said  Lucy,  '  but  she  will 
do  as  Maurice  pleases.' 

'  See,  this  is  the  way  they  will  spoil  my  boy,  the  in- 
stant my  back  is  turned  ! '  said  Albinia.  '  What's  the 
use  of  all  I  can  do  with  him,  if  every  one  else  will  go  and 
be  his  bond-slave  !  I  do  believe  Sophy  would  let  him  kill 
her,  if  he  asked  her  ! ' 

'  It  is  no  real  kindness,'  said  Mr.  Kendal.  '  Their 
good-nature  ought  not  to  go  beyond  reason.' 

The  elder  Maurice  could  hardly  help  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "Well  did  he  know  that  Mr.  Kendal  would 
have  joined  the  team  if  such  had  been  the  will  of  that 
sovereign  in  scarlet  merino,  who  stood  with  one  hand  in 
Gilbert's,  and  the  whip  in  the  other. 

'  Come  here,  Maurice,'  quoth  Albinia  ;  '  put  down  the" 
whip,'  and  she  extracted  it  from  his  grasp,  with  grave 
resolution,  against  which  he  made  no  struggle,  gave  it  to 
Lucy  to  be  put  away,  and  seated  him  on  her  knee.  '  Xow 
listen,  Maurice  ;  poor  sister  Sophy  is  tired,  and  you  are 
never  to  make  a  horse  of  her.     Do  you  hear  1 ' 

c  Yes,'  said  Maurice,  fidgeting. 

1  Mind,  if  ever  you  make  a  horse  of  Sophy,  mamma 
will  put  you  into  the  black  cupboard.     You  understand  ?  ' 

'  Sophy  shan't  be  horse,'  said  Maurice.  '  Sophy 
naughty,  lazy  horse.     Boy  has  Gibbie — ' 


232  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

'  There's  gratitude,'  said  Mr.  Ferrars,  as  '  Boy '  slid 
off  his  mamma's  knee,  stood  on  tiptoe  to  pull  the  door 
open,  and  ran  after  Gilbert  to  grandmamma's  room. 

*  Yes,'  said  Albinia ;  '  no  one  is  grateful  for  services 
beyond  all  reason.  So,  Sophy,  mind,  into  the  cupboard  he 
goes,  the  very  next  time  you  are  so  silly  as  to  be  a  horse.' 

'  To  punish  which  of  them  * '  asked  her  brother. 

'  Sophy  knows,'  said  Albinia. 

Sophy  was  too  miserable  to  smile.  Sarah  Anne  Drury 
had  been  calling,  and  on  hearing  of  Gilbert's  indispo- 
sition, had  favoured  them  with  '  mamma's  remarks,'  and 
when  Mrs.  Kendal  was  blamed,  Sophy  had  indignantly 
told  Sarah  Anne  that  she  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  had 
no  business  to  interfere.  Then  followed  the  accusation, 
that  Mrs.  Kendal  had  set  the  whole  family  against  their 
old  friends ;  and  Sophy  had  found  all  her  own  besetting 
sins  charged  upon  her  step-mother. 

'  My  dear  ! '  said  Albinia,  '  don't  you  know  that  if  a 
royal  tiger  were  to  eat  up  your  cousin  John  in  India,  the 
Drurys  would  say  Mrs.  Kendal  always  let  the  tigers  run 
about  loose  ?  Nor  am  I  sure  that  your  faults  are  not  my 
fault.  I  helped  you  to  be  more  exclusive  and  intolerant, 
and  I  am  sure  I  tried  your  temper,  when  I  did  not  know 
what  was  the  matter  with  you — ' 

*  No — no,'  said  the  choked  voice.  It  would  have  been 
an  immense  comfort  to  cry,  or  even  to  be  able  to  return 
the  kiss;  but  she  was  a  great  deal  too  wretched  to  be 
capable  of  any  demonstration;  physically  exhausted  by 
being  driven  about  by  Maurice ;  mentally  worn  out  by  the 
attempts  to  be  amiable,  which  had  degenerated  into 
wrangling ;  full  of  remorse  for  having  made  light  of  her 
brother's  illness,  and,  for  that  reason,  persuaded  that  she 
was  to  be  punished  by  seeing  it  become  fatal.  Not  a  word 
of  all  this  did  she  say,  but,  dejected  and  silent,  she  spent 
the  evening  in  a  lonely  corner  of  the  drawing-room,  while 
her  brother,  in  the  full  pleasure  of  returning  home,  and 
greatly  enjoying  his  invalid  privileges,  was  discussing  the 
projected  improvements. 

Talking  at  last  brought  back  his  cough  with  real  vio- 
lence, and  he  was  sent  to  bed  ;  Albinia  went  up  with  him 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  233 

to  see  that  his  fire  burnt.  He  set  Mr.  Ferrars's  drawing 
of  the  almshouses  over  his  mantelshelf.  ■  I  shall  nail  it 
up  to-morrow,'  he  said.  '  I  always  wanted  a  picture  here, 
and  that's  a  jolly  one  to  look  to.' 

'  It  would  be  a  beautiful  beginning,'  she  said.  '  I  think 
your  life  would  go  the  better  for  it,  Gibbie.' 

'  I  suppose  old  nurse  would  be  too  grand  for  one,'  he 
said ;  '  but  I  should  like  to  have  her  so  near !  And  you 
must  mind  and  keep  old  Mrs.  Baker  out  of  the  Union  for 
it.  And  that  famous  old  blind  sailor !  I  shall  put  him 
up  a  bench  to  sit  in  the  sun,  and  spin  his  yarns  on,  and 
tell  him  to  think  himself  at  Greenwich.' 

Albinia  went  down,  only  afraid  that  his  being  so  very 
good  was  a  dangerous  symptom. 

Sophy  was  far  from  well  in  the  morning,  and  Albinia 
kept  her  upstairs,  and  sent  her  godfather  to  make  her  a 
visit.  He  always  did  her  good ;  he  knew  how  to  probe 
deeply,  and  helpJier  to  speak,  and  he  gave  her  advice  with 
more  experience  than  his  sister,  and  more  encouragement 
than  her  father. 

Sophy  said  little,  but  her  eyes  had  a  softened  look. 

*  One  good  thing  about  Sophy,'  said  he  afterwards  to 
his  sister,  '  is,  that  she  will  never  talk  her  feelings  to 
death.' 

1  That  reserve  is  my  great  pain.  I  don't  get  at  the 
real  being  once  in  six  months.' 

1  So  much  the  better  for  people  living  together.' 

6  Well,  I  was  thinking  that  you  and  I  are  a  great  deal 
more  intimate  and  confidential  when  we  meet  now,  than 
we  used  to  be  when  we  were  always  together.' 

'  People  can't  be  often  confidential  from  the  innermost 
when  they  live  together,'  said  Maurice. 

'  Since  I  have  been  a  Kendal,  such  has  been  my  expe- 
rience.' 

'  It  was  the  same  before,  only  we  concealed  it  by  an 
upper  surface  of  chatter,'  said  Maurice.  ' "  As  iron  sharp- 
eneth  iron,  so  doth  a  man  the  countenance  of  his  friend  ; " 
but  if  the  mutual  sharpening  went  on  without  intermission, 
both  irons  would  wear  away,  and  no  work  would  be  done. 


234  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

Aren't  you  coming  with  me  ?  Edmund  is  going  to  drive 
me  to  Woodside  to  meet  the  pony- carriage  from  home.' 

1 1  wish  I  could  ;  but  you  see  what  happens  when  I  go 
out  pleasuring ! ' 

'  Well,  you  can  take  one  element  of  mischief  with  you 
— that  imp,  Maurice.' 

I  Te — es.     Papa  would  like  it,  if  you  do.' 

I I  should  like  you  to  come  on  worse  terms.' 

'  Very  well,  then  ;  and  Sophy  is  safe  ;  I  had  already 
asked  Genevieve  to  come  and  read  to  her  this  afternoon. 
If  Gilbert  can  spare  me,  I  will  go.' 

Gilbert  did  not  want  her,  and  begged  Lucy  not  to 
think  of  staying  indoors  on  his  account.  He  was  pres- 
ently left  in  solitary  possession  of  the  drawing-room, 
whereupon  he  rose,  settled  his  brown  locks  at  the  glass, 
arranged  his  tie,  brushed  his  cufTs,  leisurely  walked  up- 
stairs, and  tapped  at  the  door  of  the  morning-room,  meekly 
asking,  '  May  I  come  in  ? '  with  a  cough  at  each  end  of  the 
sentence. 

1  Oh  !  Gilbert ! '  cried  his  anxious  sister,  starting  up. 
1  Are  you  come  to  see  me  1 '  and  she  would  have  wheeled 
round  the  father's  arm-chair  for  him,  but  Genevieve  was 
beforehand  with  her,  and  he  sank  into  it,  saying  patheti- 
cally, 'Ah !  thank  you,  Miss  Durant ;  you  are  come  to  a 
perfect  hospital.  Oh  !  this  is  too  much,'  as  she  further 
gave  him  a  footstool.  l  Oh !  no,  thank  you,  Sophy,'  for 
she  would  have  handed  Genevieve  her  own  pillow  for  his 
further  support ;  'this  is  delightful ! '  reclining  patheti- 
cally in  his  chair.     '  This  is  not  like  Traversham.' 

*  Where  they  would  not  believe  he  was  ill ! '  said 
Sophy. 

' 1  hope  he  does  not  look  so  very  ill,'  said  Genevieve, 
cheerfully,  but  this  rather  hurt  the  feelings  of  both ;  the 
one  said,  '  Oh !  but  he  is  terribly  pale  ; '  the  other  cough- 
ed and  said,  <  Looks  are  deceitful.' 

1  That  is  the  very  reason,'  said  Genevieve.  '  You  don't 
look  deceitful  enough  to  be  so  ill — so  ill  as  Miss  Sophie 
fears ;  now  you  are  at  home  and  well  cared  for,  you  will 
soon  be  well.' 

'  Care  would  have  prevented  it  all,'  said  Sophy. 


THE   YOTJXG    STEP-MOTHER.  235 

'  And  not  brought  me  home  ! '  said  Gilbert.  '  Home 
is  home  on  any  terms.  Xo  one  there  had  the  least  idea  a 
fellow  could  ever  be  unwell  or  out  of  spirits  ! ' 

'  Ah  !  you  must  have  been  ill,'  cried  his  sister,  '  you 
who  never  used  to  be  miserable  ! ' 

Gilbert  gave  a  sigh.  '  They  were  such  mere  boys,' 
he  said. 

*  Monsieur  votre  Precepteur  ?  '  asked  Genevieve. 

'  Ah  !  he  was  otherwise  occupied  ! ' 

1  There  is  some  mystery  beneath,'  said  Genevieve, 
turning  to  Sophy,  who  exclaimed  abruptly,  '  Oh  !  is  he 
in  love  ? ' 

1  Sophy  goes  to  the  point,'  said  Gilbert,  smiling,  the 
picture  of  languid  comfort ;  '  but  I  own  there  are  suspi- 
cious circumstances.  He  always  has  a  photograph  in 
his  pocket,  and  Price  has  seen  him  looking  at  it.' 

'  Ah  !  depend  upon  it,  Miss  Sophy,  it  is  all  a  romance 
of  these  young  gentlemen,'  said  Genevieve,  turning  to 
her  with  a  droll,  provoking  air  of  confidence  ;  '  ce  pauvre 
Monsieur  had  the  portrait  of  his  sister  !' 

1  Catch  me  carrying  Sophy's  face  in  my  waistcoat 
pocket,'  cried  Gilbert,  forgetting  his  languor. 

'  Speak  for  yourself,  Mr.  Gilbert,'  laughed  Genevieve. 

'  And  he  writes  letters  every  day,  and  won't  let  any 
of  us  put  them  into  the  post  for  him  ;  but  we  know  the 
direction  begins  with  Miss — ' 

'  Oh  !  the  curious  boys  ! '  cried  Genevieve.  '  If  I  could 
only  hint  to  this  poor  tutor  to  let  them  read  Miss  Down 
ton  on  one  ! ' 

'  I  assure  you.'  cried  Gilbert,  '  Price  has  laid  a  bet 
that  she's  an  heiress  with  forty  thousand  pounds  and  red 
hair.' 

'  Mr.  Price  is  an  impertinent !  I  hope  you  will  in- 
form me  how  he  looks  when  he  is  the  loser.' 

'  But  he  has  seen  her !  He  met  Mr.  Downton  last 
Christmas  in  Regent  Street,  in  a  swell  carriage,  with  a 
lady  with  such  carrots,  he  thought  her  bonnet  was  on 
fire ;  and  Mr.  Downton  never  saw  Price,  though  he 
bowed  to  him  ;  and  you  know  nobody  would  marry  a 
woman  with  red  hair  unless  she  was  an  heiress.' 


236  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER, 

'  Miss  Sophy,'  whispered  Genevieve,  '  prepare  for  a 
red-haired  sister-in-law.  I  predict  that  every  one  of  the 
pupils  of  the  respectable  Mr.  Downton  will  marry  ladies 
with  lively  chestnut  locks.' 

'  What,  you  think  me  so  mercenary,  Genevieve  ? ' 
said  Gilbert. 

'  I  only  hope  to  see  this  school-boy  logic  well  re- 
venged ! '  said  Genevieve.  '  Mrs.  Price  shall  have  locks 
of  orange  red,  and  for  Mrs.  Gilbert  Kendal — ah  !  we  will 
content  ourselves  with  her  having  a  paler  shade — sandy 
gold.' 

'  No,'  said  Gilbert,  speaking  slowly,  turning  round 
his  eyes.  '  I  could  tell  you  what  Mrs.  G.  Kendal's  hair 
will  be—' 

Genevieve  let  this  drop,  and  said,  '  You  do  not  want 
me ;  good-bye,  Miss  Sophie.' 

'  Going !  why,  you  came  to  read  to  me,  Genevieve/ 
exclaimed  Sophy. 

*  Ah  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  have  been  interrupting 
you  all  this  time,'  cried  Gilbert ;  '  I  never  meant  to  dis- 
turb you.     Pray  let  me  listen.' 

And  Genevieve  read  while  Gilbert  resumed  his  reclin- 
ing attitude,  with  half-closed  eyes,  listening  to  the  sweet 
intonations  and  pretty  refined  accents  of  the  ancien  regime. 
Sophy  enjoyed  this  exceedingly,  she  made  it  her  espe- 
cial occupation  to  take  care  of  Gilbert,  and  enter  into  his 
fireside  amusements.  This  indisposition  had  drawn  the 
two  nearer  together,  and  essentially  unlike  as  they  were, 
their  two  characters  seemed  to  be  fitting  well  one  into  the 
other.  His  sentiment  accorded  with  her  strain  of  ro- 
mance, and  they  read  poetry  and  had  discussions  as  they 
sat  over  the  fire,  growing  constantly  into  greater  intimacy 
and  confidence.  Sophy  waited  on  him,  and  watched  him 
perpetually,  and  her  assiduity  was  imparting  a  softness 
and  warmth  quite  new  to  her,  while  the  constant  occupa- 
tion kept  affronts  and  vexations  out  of  her  sight,  and 
made  her  amiable. 

Gilbert's  health  improved,  though  with  vicissitudes 
that  enforced  the  necessity  of  prudence.  Rash  when 
well,  and  desponding  at  each  renewal  of  illness,  he  was 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  237 

not  easy  to  manage,  but  he  was  always  so  gentle,  grateful, 
and  obliging,  that  he  endeared  himself  to  the  whole  house- 
hold. It  was  no  novelty  for  him  to  be  devoted  to  his 
step-mother  and  his  little  brother,  but  he  was  likewise 
very  kind  to  Lucy,  and  spent  much  time  in  helping  in  her 
pursuits  ;  he  was  becoming  companionable  to  his  father, 
and  could  play  at  chess  sufficiently  well  to  be  a  worthy 
antagonist  in  Mr.  Kendal's  scientific  and  interminable 
games.  He  would  likewise  play  at  backgammon  with 
grandmamma,  and  could  entertain  her  for  hours  together 
by  listening  to  her  long  stories  of  the  old  Bay  ford  world. 
He  was  a  favourite  in  her  little  society,  and  would  often 
take  a  hand  at  cards  to  make  up  a  rubber ;  nay,  even 
when  not  absolutely  required,  he  was  very  apt  to  bestow 
his  countenance  upon  the  little  parties,  where  he  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  treated  as  a  great  man,  and  which,  at 
least,  had  the  advantage  of  making  a  variation  in  his  im- 
prisonment during  the  east  winds. 

Madame  Belmarche  and  her  daughter  and  grandchild 
were  sometimes  of  the  party,  and  on  these  occasions, 
Sophy  always  claimed  Genevieve,  and  usually  succeeded 
in  carrying  her  off,  when  Gilbert  would  often  join  them. 
Their  books  and  prints  were  a  great  treat  to  her  ;  Gilbert 
had  a  beautiful  illustrated  copy  of  Longfellow's  poems, 
and  the  engravings  and  '  Evangeline '  were  their  enjoy- 
ment ;  Gilbert  regularly  proffering  the  loan  of  the  book, 
and  she  as  regularly  refusing  it,  and  turning  a  deaf  ear  to 
gentle  insinuations  of  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  any 
book  of  his  was  in  her  hands.  Gilbert  had  never  had 
much  of  the  schoolboy  manner,  and  he  was  adopting  a 
gentle,  pathetic  tone,  at  which  Albinia  was  apt  to  laugh, 
but  in  her  absence  was  often  verged  upon  tendresse,  es- 
pecially with  Genevieve.  She,  however,  by  her  perfect 
simplicity  and  lively  banter,  always  nipped  the  bud  of 
his  sentiment ;  she  had  known  him  from  a  child,  and 
never  lost  the  sense  of  being  his  elder,  treating  him  some- 
what as  a  boy  to  be  played  with.  Perfectly  aware  of  her 
own  position,  her  demeanour,  frank  and  gracious  as  it 
was,  had  something  in  it  which  kept  in  check  other  Bay- 
ford  youths  less  gentlemanlike  than  Gilbert  Kendal.     If 


238  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

she  never  forgot  that  she  was  a  dancing-master's  daughter, 
she  never  let  any  one  else  forget  that  she  was  a  lady. 

When  the  building  began,  Gilbert  had  a  wholesome 
occupation,  saving  his  father  some  trouble  and — not  quite 
so  much  expense  by  overlooking  the  workmen.  Mr. 
Kendal  was  glad  to  be  spared  giving  orders  and  speaking 
to  people,  and  would  always  rather  be  overcharged  than 
be  at  the  pains  of  bargaining  or  inquiring.  '  It  was  Gil- 
bert's own  house,'  he  said,  '  and  it  was  good  for  the  boy 
to  take  an  interest  in  it,  and  not  to  be  too  much  interfered 
with.'  So  the  bay  window  and  the  conservatory  were 
some  degrees  grander  than  Mr.  Ferrars  had  proposed, 
but  all  was  excused  by  the  pleasure  and  experience  they 
afforded  Gilbert,  and  it  was  very  droll  to  see  Maurice 
following  him  about  after  the  workmen,  watching  them 
most  knowingly,  and  deep  in  mischief  at  every  oppor- 
tunity. Once  he  had  been  up  to  his  knees  in  a  tempting 
blancmanger-like  lake  of  lime,  many  times  had  he  ham- 
mered or  cut  his  fingers,  and  once  his  legs  had  gone 
through  the  new  drawing-room  ceiling,  where  he  hung 
by  the  petticoats  screaming  till  rescued  by  his  brother. 
The  room  was  under  these  auspices  finished,  and  was  a 
very  successful  affair — the  conservatory,  in  which  the  hall 
terminated,  and  into  which  a  side  door  of  the  drawing- 
room  opened,  gave  a  bright,  fragrant,  flowery  air  to  the 
whole  house  ;  and  the  low  fire-place  and  comfortable  fan- 
shaped  fender  made  the  room  very  cheerful.  Fresh,  del- 
icately-tinted furniture,  chosen  con  amore  by  the  London 
aunts,  had  made  the  apartment  very  unlike  old  Willow 
Lawn ;  and  Albinia  had  so  much  enjoyed  setting  it  off 
to  the  best  advantage,  that  she  sent  word  to  Winifred 
that  she  was  really  becoming  a  furniture  fancier. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  paper,  and  some  choice  prints 
hung  on  it;  but  Albinia  and  Sophy  had  laid  violent 
hands  on  all  the  best-looking  books,  and  kept  them  for 
the  equipment  of  one  of  the  walls.  The  rest  were  dis- 
posed, for  Mr.  Kendal's  delectation,  in  the  old  drawing- 
room,  henceforth  to  be  named  the  library.  Lucy  thought 
it  sounded  better,  and  he  was  quite  as  willing  as  Albinia 
was  that  the  name  of  studv  should  be  extinct.     Meantime 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  239 

Mr.  Downton  had  verified  the  boy's  prediction  by  writ- 
ing to  announce  that  he  was  about  to  marry  and  give  up 
pupils. 

Gilbert  was  past  seventeen,  and  it  was  time  to  decide 
on  his  profession.  Albinia  had  virtuously  abstained  from 
any  hint  adverse  to  the  house  of  Kendal  and  Kendal,  for 
she  knew  it  hurt  her  husband's  feelings  to  hear  any  dis- 
paragement of  the  country  where  he  had  spent  some  of 
his  happiest  years.  He  was  fond  of  his  cousins,  and 
knew  that  they  would  give  his  son  a  safe  and  happy 
home,  and  he  believed  that  the  climate  was  exactly  what 
his  health  needed. 

Sophy  fired  at  the  idea.  Her  constant  study  of  the 
subject  and  her  vivid  imagination  had  taken  the  place  of 
memory,  which  could  supply  nothing  but  the  glow  of 
colouring  and  the  dazzling  haze  which  enveloped  all  the 
forms  that  she  would  fain  believe  that  she  remembered. 
She  and  her  father  would  discuss  Indian  scenery  as  if  they 
had  been  only  absent  from  it  a  year ;  she  envied  Gilbert 
his  return  thither,  but  owned  that  it  was  the  next  thing 
to  going  herself,  and  was  already  beginning  to  amass  a 
hoard  of  English  gifts  for  the  old  a}*ahs  and  bearers  who 
still  lived  in  her  recollection,  in  preparation  for  the  visit 
which  on  his  first  holiday  her  brother  must  pay  to  her 
birthplace  and  first  home. 

Gilbert,  however,  took  no  part  in  this  enthusiasm,  he 
made  no  opposition,  but  showed  no  alacrity  ;  and  at  last 
his  father  asked  Albinia  whether  she  knew  of  any  objec- 
tion on  his  part,  or  any  design  which  he  might  be  unwill- 
ing to  put  forward.  With  a  beating  heart  she  avowed 
her  cherished  scheme. 

'  Is  this  his  own  proposal  ? '  asked  Mr.  Kendal. 

1  No ;  he  has  never  spoken  of  it ;  but  your  plan  has 
always  seemed  so  decided  that  perhaps  he  thinks  he  has 
no  choice.' 

'  That  is  not  what  I  wish,'  said  his  father.  *  If  his  in- 
clinations be  otherwise,  he  has  only  to  speak,  and  I  will 
consider.' 

'  Shall  I  sound  him  ?  '  suggested  Albinia,  dreading  the 
timidity  that  always  stood  between  the  boy  and  his 
father. 


240  THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

'  Do  not  inspire  him  with  the  wish  and  then  imagine 
it  his  own,'  said  Mr.  Kendal ;  and  then  thinking  he  had 
spoken  sternly,  added,  '  I  know  you  would  be  the  last  to 
wish  him  to  take  holy  orders  inconsiderately,  but  you 
have  such  power  over  him,  that  I  question  whether  he 
would  know  his  wishes  from  yours.' 

Albinia  began  to  disavow  the  desire  of  actuating  him. 

1  You  would  not  intend  it,  but  he  would  catch  the 
desire  from  you,  and  I  own  I  would  rather  he  were 
not  inspired  with  it.  If  he  now  should  express  it,  I 
should  fear  it  was  the  unconscious  effort  to  escape  from 
India.  If  it  had  been  his  brother  Edmund,  I  would  have 
made  any  sacrifice,  but  I  do  not  think  Gilbert  has  the 
energy  or  force  of  character  I  should  wish  to  see  in  a 
clergyman,  nor  do  I  feel  willing  to  risk  him  at  the  univer- 
sity.' 

1  Oh  !  Edmund,  why  will  you  distrust  Oxford  ? 
Why  will  you  not  believe  what  I  know  through  Maurice 
and  his  friends  1 ' 

'  If  my  poor  boy  had  either  the  disposition  or  the 
discipline  of  your  brother,  I  should  not  feel  the  same 
doubt.' 

*  Maurice  had  no  discipline  except  at  school  and  when 
William  licked  him,'  cried  Albinia.  '  You  know  he  was 
but  eleven  years  old  when  my  father  died,  and  my  aunts 
spoilt  us  without  mitigation.' 

'  I  said  the  disposition,'  repeated  Mr.  Kendal ;  '  I  can 
see  nothing  in  Gilbert  marking  him  for  a  clergyman,  and 
I  think  him  susceptible  to  the  temptations  that  you  can- 
not deny  to  exist  at  any  college.  Nor  would  I  desire  to 
see  him  fixed  here,  until  he  has  seen  something  of  life  and 
of  business,  for  which  this  bank  affords  the  greatest  facil- 
ities with  the  least  amount  of  temptation.  He  would 
also  be  doing  something  for  his  own  support ;  and  with 
the  life-interests  upon  his  property,  he  must  be  dependent 
on  his  own  exertions,  unless  I  were  to  do  more  for  him 
than  would  be  right  by  the  other  children.' 

'  Then  I  am  to  say  nothing  to  him  1 ' 

'  I  will  speak  to  him  myself.  He  is  quite  old  enough 
to  understand  his  prospects,  and  decide  for  himself.' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  241 

'  But,  Edmund,'  cried  Albinia,  with  sudden  vehemence, 
1  you  are  not  sacrificing  Gilbert  for  Maurice's  sake  ? ' 

She  had  more  nearly  displeased  him  than  she  had 
ever  done  before,  though  he  looked  up  quietly,  saying, 
1  Certainly  not.  I  am  not  sacrificing  Gilbert,  and  I  should 
do  the  same  if  Maurice  were  not  in  existence.' 

She  was  too  much  ashamed  of  her  foolish  fancy  to 
say  more,  and  she  cooled  into  candour  sufficient  to  per- 
ceive that  he  was  wise  in  distrusting  her  tact  where  her 
preference  was  so  strong.  But  she  foresaw  that  Gilbert 
would  shrink  and  falter  before  his  father,  and  that  the 
conference  would  lead  to  no  discovery  of  his  views,  and 
she  was  not  surprised  when  her  husband  told  her  that  he 
could  not  understand  the  boy,  and  believed  that  the  truth 
was,  that  he  would  like  to  do  nothing  at  all.  It  had 
ended,  by  Mr.  Kendal,  in  a  sort  of  despair,  undertaking 
to  write  to  his  cousin  John  for  a  statement  of  what  would 
be  required,  after  which  the  decision  was  to  be  made. 

Meantime  Mr.  Kendal  advised  Gilbert  to  attend  to 
arithmetic  and  book-keeping,  and  offered  to  instruct  him 
in  his  long-forgotten  Hindostanee.  Sophy  learnt  all  these 
with  all  her  heart,  but  Gilbert  always  had  a  pain  in  his 
chest  if  he  sat  still  at  any  kind  of  study  ! 


CHAPTER   XV 


Colonel  Bury  was  the  most  open-hearted  old  bach- 
elor in  the  country.  His  imagination  never  could  con- 
ceive the  possibility  of  everybody  not  being  glad  to 
meet  everybody;  his  house  could  never  be  too  full,  his 
dinner-parties  of  *  a  few  friends '  overflowed  the  dining- 
room,  and  his  '  nobody  '  meant  always  at  least  six  bodies. 
Every  season  was  fertile  in  occasions  of  gathering  old  and 
young  together  to  be  made  happy  ;  and  little  Mary  Fer- 
rers, at  five  years  old,  had  told  her  mamma  that  '  the 
Colonel's  parties  made  her  quite  dissipated.' 
11 


242  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEK. 

One  bright  summer  day,  his  beaming  face  appeared 
at  Willow  Lawn  with  a  peremptory  invitation.  His 
nephew  and  heir  had  newly  married  a  friend  of  Albinia's 
girlhood,  and  was  about  to  pay  his  wedding  visit.  Too 
happy  to  keep  his  guests  to  himself,  the  Colonel  had  fixed 
the  next  Thursday  for  a  fete,  and  wanted  all  the  world  to 
come  to  it — the  Kendals,  every  one  of  them — if  they 
could  only  sleep  there — but  Albinia  brought  him  to  con- 
fession that  he  had  promised  to  lodge  five  people  more 
than  the  house  would  hold ;  and  the  aunts  were  at  the 
parsonage,  where  nobody  ventured  to  crowd  their  ser- 
vants. 

But  there,  was  a  moon — and  though  Mr.  Kendal  would 
not  allow  that  she  was  the  harvest  moon,  the  hospitable 
Colonel  dilated  on  her  as  if  she  had  been  bed,  board,  and 
lodging,  and  he  did  not  find  much  difficulty  in  his  per- 
suasions. 

Few  invitations  ever  gave  more  delight ;  Albinia  ap- 
preciated a  holiday  to  the  utmost,  and  the  whole  family 
was  happy  at  Sophy's  chance  of  at  length  seeing  Fair- 
mead,  and  taking  part  in  a  little  gaiety.  And  if  Mr. 
Kendal's  expectations  of  pleasure  were  less  high,  he  sub- 
mitted very  well,  smiled  benignantly  at  the  felicity 
around  him,  and  was  not  once  seen  to  shudder. 

Sarah  Anne  Drury  had  been  invited  to  enliven  grand- 
mamma, and  every  one  augured  a  beautiful  day  and  per- 
fect enjoyment.  The  morning  was  beautiful,  but  alas  ! 
Sophy  was  hors  de  combat,  far  too  unwell  to  think  of 
making  one  of  the  party.  She  bore  the  disappointment 
magnanimously,  and  even  the  pity.  Every  one  was 
sorry,  and  Gilbert  wanted  her  to  go  and  wait  at  Fair- 
mead  Parsonage  for  the  chance  of  improving,  promising 
to  come  and  fetch  her  for  any  part  of  the  entertainment ; 
and  her  father  told  her  that  he  had  looked  to  her  as  his 
chief  companion  while  the  gay  people  were  taking  their 
pleasure.  No  one  was  uncomfortably  generous  enough 
to  offer  to  stay  at  home  with  her ;  but  Lucy  suggested 
asking  Genevieve  to  come  and  take  care  of  her. 

'  Nay,'  said  Sophy,  '  it  would  be  much  better  if  she 
were  to  go  in  my  stead.' 


THE    YOUXG    STEP-MOTHEE,  243 

Gilbert  and  Lucy  both  uttered  an  exclamation ;  and 
Sophy  added,  '  She  would  have  so  much  more  enjoyment 
than  1  could  !  Oh,  it  would  quite  make  up  for  my  miss- 
ing it ! ' 

'  My  dear,'  said  grandmamma,  '  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  of.     It  would  be  taking  such  a  liberty.' 

'  There  need  be  no  scruples  on  that  score,'  said  Al- 
binia  ;  '  the  Colonel  would  only  thank  me  if  1  brought  him 
half  Bayford.' 

1  Then,'  cried  ^ophy,  '  you  think  we  may  ask  her  ? 
Oh,  I  should  like  to  run  up  myself; ' — and  a  look  of  con- 
gratulation and  gratitude  passed  between  her  and  her 
brother. 

1  Xo,  indeed,  you  must  not ;  let  me  go,'  said  Lucy ; 
1  I'll  just  finish  this  cup  of  tea — ' 

1  My  dear,  my  dear,'  interposed  Mrs.  Meadows,  '  pray 
consider.  She  is  a  very  good  little  girl  in  her  way,  but 
it  is  only  giving  her  a  taste  for  things  out  of  her  station.' 

1  Oh  !  don't  say  that,  dear  grandmamma,'  interposed 
Albinia ;  '  one  good  festival  does  carry  one  so  much  bet- 
ter through  days  of  toil ! ' 

1  Ah,  well !  my  dear,  you  will  do  as  you  think 
proper ; '  but  considering  who  the  poor  child  is,  I  should 
call  it  no  kindness  to  bring  her  forward  in  company.' 

Something  passed  between  the  indignant  Gilbert  and 
Sophy  about  French  counts  and  marquises,  but  Lucy 
managed  much  better.  '-Dear  me,  grandmamma,  no- 
body wishes  to  bring  her  forward.  She  will  only  play 
with  the  children,  and  see  the  fireworks,  and  no  one  will 
speak  to  her.' 

Albinia  averted  further  discussion  till  grandmamma 
had  left  the  breakfast-table,  when  all  four  appealed 
with  one  voice  to  Mr.  Kendal,  who  saw  no  objection ; 
whereupon  Lucy  ran  off,  while  Albinia  finished  her  ar, 
rangementa  for  the  well-being  of  grandmamma,  Sophy, 
and  Maurice,  who  were  as  difficult  to  manage  as  the  fox, 
goose,  and  cabbage.  At  every  turn  she  encountered  Gil- 
bert, touching  up  his  toilette  at  each  glass,  and  seriously 
consulting  her  and  Sophy  upon  the  choice  between  lilac 
and  lemon-coloured  gloves,  and  upon  the  bows  of  his 
fringed  neck-tie. 


244  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

'  My  dear  Gilbert,'  said  Albhria,  on  the  fifth  anxious 
alternative,  '  it  is  of  no  use.  No  living  creature  will  be 
the  wiser,  and  do  what  you  will,  you  will  never  look  half 
so  well  as  your  father.' 

Gilbert  flung  aside,  muttering  something  about  '  fit  to 
be  seen,'  but  just  then  Lucy  hurried  in.  '  Oh  !  mamma, 
she  won't  go — she  is  very  much  obliged,  but  she  can't  go.' 

'Can't'?  she  must,'  cried  Albinia  and  Gilbert  to- 
gether. 

'  She  says  you  are  very  kind,  but  that  she  cannot.  I 
said  everything  I  could ;  I  told  Ker  she  should  wear 
Sophy's  muslin  mantle,  or  my  second  best  polka.' 

'  Xo  doubt  you  went  and  made  a  great  favour  of  it,' 
said  Gilbert. 

'  No,  1  assure  you  I  did  not ;  I  persuaded  her  with  all 
m}^  might ;  I  said  mamma  wished  it,  and  we  all  wished 
it ;  and  I  am  sure  she  would  really  have  been  very  gla 
if  she  could  have  gone.' 

'  It  can't  be  the  school,  it  is  holiday  time,'  said  Gil- 
bert.    '  I'll  go  and  see  what  is  the  matter.' 

'  No,  I  will  go,'  said  Albinia ;  *  I  will  ask  the  old 
ladies  to  luncheon  here,  and  that  will  make  her  happ}*, 
and  make  it  easier  for  Sophy  to  get  on  with  Sarah  Anne 
Drury.' 

Lucy  had  seen  Genevieve  alone  ;  Albinia  took  her  by 
storm  before  Madame  Belmarche,  whose  little  black  eyes 
sparkled  as  she  assured  Mrs.  Kendal  that  the  child  mer- 
ited that  and  every  other  pleasure  ;  and  when  Genevieve 
attempted  to  whisper  objections,  silenced  her  with  an 
embrace,  saying,  '  Ah  !  my  love,  where  is  your  gratitude 
to  Madame  ?  Have  no  fears  for  us.  Your  pleasure  will 
be  ours  for  months  to  come.' 

The  liquid  sweetness  of  Genevieve's  eyes  spoke  of  no 
want  of  gratitude,  and  with  glee  which  she  no  longer 
strove  to  repress,  she  tripped  away  to  equip  herself,  and 
Albinia  heard  her  clear  young  voice  up-stairs,  singing 
away  the  burthen  of  some  queer  old  French  ditty. 

Albinia  found  Gilbert  and  Sophy  in  disgrace  with  Lucy 
for  having  gathered  the  choicest  flowers,  which  they  were 
eagerly  making  up  into  bouquets.    Genevieve's  was  ready 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  245 

before  she  arrived  in  the  prettiest  tremor  of  gratitude  and 
anticipation,  and  presented  to  her  by  Gilbert,  whilst  Sophy 
looked  on,  and  blushed  crimson,  face,  neck,  and  all,  as 
Genevieve  smelt  and  admired  the  white  roses  that  had  so 
cruelly  been  reft  from  Lucy's  beloved  tree. 

"With  every  advantage  of  pretty  features,  good  com- 
plexion, and  nice  figure,  the  English  Lucy,  in  her  blue- 
and-white  checked  silk,  worked  muslin  mantle,  and  white 
chip  bonnet  with  blue  ribbons,  was  eclipsed  by  the  small 
swarthy  French  girl,  in  that  very  old  black  silk  dress, 
and  white  trimmed  coarse  straw  bonnet,  just  enlivened 
by  little  pink  bows  at  the  neck  and  wrists.  It  had  long 
been  acknowledged  that  Genevieve  was  unrivalled  in  the 
art  of  tying  bows,  and  those  pink  ones  were  paragons, 
redolent  of  all  her  own  fresh  sprightly  archness  and  re- 
finement. Albinia  herself  was  the  best  representative  of 
English  good  looks,  and  never  had  she  been  more  brill- 
iant, her  rich  chestnut  hair  waving  so  prettily  on  the 
rounded  contour  of  her  happy  face,  her  fair  check  tinted 
with  such  a  healthy  fresh  bloom,  her  grey  eyes  laughing 
with  merry  softness,  her  whole  person  so  alert  and  elastic 
with  exuberant  life  and  enjoyment,  that  grandmamma 
was  as  happy  in  watching  her  as  if  she  had  been  her  own 
daughter,  and  stroked  down  the  broad  flounces  of  her 
changeable  silk,  and  admired  her  black  lace,  as  if  she  felt 
the  whole  family  exalted  by  Mrs.  Kendal's  appearance. 

It  was  a  merry  journey,  through  the  meadows  and 
cornfields,  laughing  in  the  summer  sunshine ;  and  in  due 
time  they  saw  the  flag  upon  Fairmead  steeple,  and  Al- 
binia nodded  to  curtseying  old  friends  at  the  cottage 
doors.  The  lodge  gate  swung  open  wide,  and  the  well- 
known  striped  marquee  was  seen  among  the  trees  in 
the  distance,  as  they  went  up  the  carriage-road  ;  but  at 
the  little  iron  gate  leading  to  the  shrubbery,  there  was  a 
halt ;  Mr.  Ferrars  called  to  the  carriage  to  stop,  and 
opened  the  door.  At  the  same  moment  Albinia  gave  a 
cry  of  wonder,  and  exclaimed,  '  Why,  Fred  !  is  William 
here  ? ' 

1  No  ;  at  Montreal,  but  very  well,'  was  the  answer, 
with  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand. 


24(3  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

'  Edmund,  it  is  Fred  Ferrars,'  said  Albinia.  '  Why, 
Maurice,  you  never  told  us.' 

'  He  took  us  by  surprise  yesterday.' 

'  Yes ;  I  landed  yesterday  morning,  went  to  the 
Family  Office,  found  Belraven  was  nowhere,  and  the 
aunts  at  Fairmead,  and  so  came  on  here,'  explained  Fred, 
as  he  finished  shaking  hands  with  all  the  party,  and 
walked  on  beside  Albinia.  Pie  was  tall,  fresh-coloured,  a 
good  deal  like  her,  with  a  long  fair  moustache,  and  light, 
handsome  figure ;  and  Lucy,  though  rather  disconcerted 
at  Genevieve  being  taken  for  one  of  themselves,  began 
eagerly  to  whisper  her  conviction  that  he  was  Lord  Bel- 
raven's  brother,  mamma's  first  cousin,  captain  in  the  25th 
Lancers,  and  aide-de-camp  to  General  Ferrars. 

It  was  the  first  meeting  since  an  awkward  parting. 
The  only  son  of  a  foolish  second  marriage,  and  early  left 
an  orphan,  Frederick  Ferrars  had  grown  up  under  the 
good  aunts'  charge,  somewhat  neglected  by  his  half- 
brother,  by  many  years  his  senior.  He  was  little  older 
than  Albinia,  and  a  merry,  bantering  affection  had  always 
subsisted  between  them,  till  he  had  begun  to  give  it  the 
air  of  something  more  than  friendship.  Albinia  was, 
however,  of  a  nature  to  seek  for  something  of  dejoth  and 
repose,  on  which  to  rely  for  support  and  anchorage. 
Fred's  vivacious  disposition  had  never  for  a  moment  won 
her  serious  attachment ;  she  was  '  very  fond  of  him,'  but 
no  more ;  her  heart  was  set  on  sharing  her  brother's  life 
as  a  country  pastor.  She  went  to  Fairmead,  Fred  was 
carried  off  by  the  General  to  Canada,  and  she  presently 
heard  of  his  hopeless  attachment  to  a  lovely  Yankee, 
whom  he  met  on  board  the  steamer.  All  this  was  now 
cast  behind  the  seven  most  eventful  years  of  Albinia's 
life ;  and  in  the  dignity  of  her  matronhood,  she  looked 
more  than  ever  on  *  poor  Fred '  as  a  boy,  and  was  de- 
lighted to  see  him  again,  and  to  hear  of  her  brother 
William. 

A  few  steps  brought  them  to  the  shade  of  the  large 
cedar-tree,  where  was  seated  Winifred,  and  Mrs.  Annes- 
ley  was  with  her.  The  greetings  had  hardly  been  ex- 
changed before  the  Colonel  came  upon  them  in  all  his 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  247 

glory,  with  his  pretty  shy  bride  niece  on  his  arm,  looking 
very  like  the  Alice  Percy  of  the  old  times,  when  Fred 
used  to  tease  the  two  girls. 

Genevieve  was  made  heartily  welcome,  and  Sophia's 
absence  deplored,  and  then  the  Colonel  carried  off  the 
younger  ones  to  the  archery,  giving  his  arm  to  the  much 
nattered  Lucy,  and  followed  by  Gilbert  and  Genevieve, 
with  Willie  and  Mary  adhering  to  them  closely,  and  their 
governess  in  sight. 

Mr.  Ferrars  and  Mr.  Kendal  fell  into  one  of  their  dis- 
cussions, and  paced  up  and  down  the  shady  walk,  while 
Albinia  sat,  in  the  complete  contentment,  beween  Alice 
and  Winifred,  with  Fred  Ferrars  on  the  turf  at  their  feet, 
living  over  again  the  bygone  days,  laughing  over  ancient 
jokes,  resuscitating  past  scrapes,  tracing  the  lot  of  old 
companions,  or  telling  mischievous  anecdotes  of  each 
other,  for  the  very  purpose  of  being  contradicted.  They 
were  much  too  light-hearted  to  note  the  lapse  of  time,  till 
Maurice  came  to  take  his  wife  home,  thinking  she  had 
had  fatigue  enough.  Mrs.  Annesley  went  with  her,  and 
Albinia,  on  looking  for  her  husband,  was  told  that  he  had 
fallen  in  with  some  old  Indian  acquaintances  ;  and  Charles 
Bury  presently  came  to  find  his  wife,  and  conduct  the 
party  to  luncheon.  There  was  no  formal  meal,  but  a 
perpetual  refection  laid  out  in  the  dining-room,  for  relays 
of  guests.  Fred  took  care  of  Albinia,  and  here  they  met 
Miss  Ferrars,  who  had  been  with  one  of  her  old  friends, 
to  whom  she  was  delighted  to  exhibit  her  nephew  and 
niece  in  their  prime  of  good  looks. 

'  But  I  must  go,'  said  Albinia ;  '  having  found  the 
provisions,  I  must  secure  that  Mr.  Kendal  and  the  chil- 
dren are  not  famished.' 

Fred  came  with  her,  and  she  turned  down  the  long 
alley  leading  to  the  archery -ground.  He  felt  old  times 
so  far  renewed  as  to  resume  their  habits  of  confidence, 
and  began,  '  I  suppose  the  General  has  not  told  you  what 
has  brought  me  home  ? ' 

'  He  has  not  so  much  as  told  me  you  were  coming.' 

1  Ay,  ay,  of  course  you  know  how  he  treats  those 
things.' 


248  THE  YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

'  Oh — h  ! '  said  Albinia,  perfectly  understanding. 

'  But,'  continued  Frederick,  eagerly,  '  even  he  con- 
fesses that  she  is  the  very  sweetest — I  mean,'  as  Albinia 
smiled  at  this  evident  embellishment,  '  even  he  has  not  a 
word  of  objection  to  make,  except  the  old  story  about 
married  officers.' 

4  And  who  is  she,  Fred  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  mamma,  there  you  are  ! '  and  Lucy  joined  them 
as  they  emerged  on  the  bowling-green,  where  stood  the 
two  bright  targets,  and  the  groups  of  archers,  whose 
shafts,  for  the  most  part,  flew  far  and  wide. 

1  Where  are  the  rest,  my  dear  ?  are  they  shooting  ?  ' 

'  Yes ;  Gilbert  has  been  teaching  Genevieve — there, 
she  is  shooting  now.' 

The  little  light  figure  stood  in  advance.  Gilbert 
held  her  arrows,  and  another  gentleman  appeared  to  be 
counselling  her.  There  seemed  to  be  general  exultation 
when  one  of  her  arrows  touched  the  white  ring  outside 
the  target. 

'  That  has  been  her  best  shot,'  said  Lucy.  '  I  am  sure 
I  would  not  shoot  in  public  unless  I  knew  how  ! ' 

'  Do  you  not  like  shooting  ?  '  asked  Captain  Ferrars  ; 
and  Lucy  smiled,  and  lost  her  discontented  air. 

1  It  hurts  my  fingers,'  she  said  ;  '  and  I  have  always  so 
much  to  do  in  the  garden.' 

Albinia  asked  if  she  had  had  anything  to  eat. 

'  Oh,  yes ;  the  Colonel  asked  Gilbert  to  carve  in  the 
tent  there,  for  the  children  and  governesses,'  said  Lucy  ; 
'  he  and  Genevieve  were  very  busy  there ;  but  I  found  I 
was  not  of  much  use,  so  I  came  away  with  the  Miss  Bar- 
tons to  look  at  the  flowers ;  but  now  they  are  shooting, 
and  I  could  not  think  what  had  become  of  you.' 

And  Lucy  bestowed  her  company  on  Albinia  and  the 
Captain,  reducing  him  to  dashing,  disconnected  talk,  till 
they  met  Mr.  Kendal,  searching  for  them  in  the  same  fear 
that  they  were  starving,  and  anxious  to  introduce  his  wife 
to  his  Indian  friends.  When  at  the  end  of  the  path,  Al- 
binia looked  round,  the  Lancer  had  disappeared,  and  Lucy 
was  walking  by  her  father,  trying  to  look  serenely  amused 
by  a  discussion  on  the  annexation  of  the  Punjaub. 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-ilOTHER.  249 

The  afternoon  was  spent  in  pleasant  loitering,  chiefly 
with  Miss  Ferrars,  who  asked  much  after  Sophy,  la- 
mented greatly  over  Winifred's  delicate  health,  and  was 
very  anxious  to  know  what  could  have  brought  Fred 
home,  being  much  afraid  it  was  some  foolish  attachment. 

Ominous  notes  were  heard  from  the  band,  and  the 
Colonel  came  to  tell  them  that  there  was  to  be  dancing 
till  it  was  dark  enough  for  the  fireworks  ;  his  little  Alice 
had  promised  him  her  first  country-dance.  Fred  Ferrars 
emerged  again  with  a  half-laughing,  half-imploring,  '  For 
the  sake  of  old  times,  Albinia  !  We've  been  partners 
before  ! ' 

'  You'll  take  care  of  Lucy,'  said  Albinia,  turning  to 
her  aunt ;  but  Mr.  Winthrop  had  already  taken  pity  on 
her,  and  Albinia  was  led  off  by  her  cousin  to  her  place  in 
the  fast  lengthening  rank.  How  she  enjoyed  it!  She 
had  cared  little  for  London  balls  after  the  first  novelty, 
but  these  Fairmead  dances  on  the  turf  had  always  had  an 
Arcadian  charm  to  her  fancy,  and  were  the  more  delight- 
fid  after  so  long  an  interval,  in  the  renewal  of  the  old 
scene,  and  the  recognition  of  so  many  familiar  faces. 

With  bounding  step  and  laughing  lips  she  flew  down 
the  middle,  more  exhilarated  every  moment,  exchanging 
merry  scraps  of  talk  with  her  partner  or  bright  fragments 
as  she  poussetted  with  pair  after  pair ;  and  when  the 
dance  was  over,  with  glowing  complexion  and  eyes  still 
dancing,  she  took  Fred's  arm,  and  heard  the  renewal  of 
his  broken  story — the  praise  of  his  Emily,  the  fairest  of 
Canadians,  whom  even  the  General  could  not  dislike, 
though,  thorough  soldier  as  he  was,  he  would  fain  have 
had  all  military  men  as  devoid  of  encumbrances  as  him- 
self, and  thought  an  officer's  wife  one  of  the  most  mis- 
placed articles  in  the  world.  Poor  Fred  had  been  in  love 
so  often,  that  he  laboured  under  the  great  vexation  of  not 
,  being  able  to  persuade  any  of  his  friends  to  regard  his 
passion  seriously,  but  Albinia  was  quite  sisterly  enough 
to  believe  him  this  time,  and  give  full  sympathy  to  his 
hopes  and  fears.  Far  less  wealth  had  fallen  to  his  lot 
than  to  that  of  his  cousins,  and  his  marriage  must  depend 
on  what  his  brother  would  '  do  for  him,  a  point  on  which 
11* 


250  THE   YOUNG   STEP  MOTHEK. 

he  tried  to  be  sanguine,  and  Albinia  encouraged  him 
against  probability,  for  Lord  Belraven  was  never  liberal 
towards  his  relations,  and  had  lately  married  an  expen- 
sive wife,  with  whom  he  lived  chiefly  abroad. 

This  topic  was  not  exhausted  when  Fred  fell  a  prey 
to  the  Colonel,  who  insisted  on  his  dancing  again,  and  Al- 
binia telling  him  to  do  his  duty,  he  turned  towards  a 
group  that  had  coalesced  round  Miss  Ferrars,  consisting 
of  Lucy,  Gilbert,  Genevieve,  and  the  children  from  the 
parsonage,  and  at  once  bore  off  the  little  Frenchwoman, 
leaving  more  than  one  countenance  blank.  Lucy  and 
Willie  did  their  best  for  mutual  consolation,  while  Al- 
binia undertook  to  preside  over  her  niece  and  a  still 
smaller  partner  in  red  velvet,  in  a  quadrille.  It  was 
amusing  to  watch  the  puzzled  downright  motions  of  the 
sturdy  little  bluff  King  Hal,  and  the  earnest  precision  of 
the  prim  little  damsel,  and  Albinia  hovering  round,  now 
handing  one,  now  pointing  to  the  other,  keeping  lightly 
out  of  every  one's  way,  and  far  more  playful  than  either 
of  the  small  performers  in  this  solemn  undertaking.  As 
it  concluded  she  found  that  Mr.  Kendal  had  been  watching 
her,  with  much  entertainment,  and  she  was  glad  to  take 
his  arm,  and  assure  herself  that  he  had  not  been  misera- 
ble, but  had  been  down  to  the  parsonage,  where  he  had 
read  the  newspaper  in  peace,  and  had  enjoyed  a  cup  of 
tea  in  quiet  with  Winifred  and  Mrs.  Annesley. 

The  dancing  had  been  transferred  to  the  tent,  which 
presented  a  very  pretty  scene  from  without,  looking 
through  the  drooping  festoons  of  evergreens  at  the  lamps 
and  the  figures  flitting  to  and  fro  in  their  measured  move- 
ments, while  the  shrubs  and  dark  foliage  of  the  trees  fell 
into  gloom  around  ;  and  above,  the  sky  assumed  the  deep 
tranquil  blue  of  night,  the  pale  bright  stars  shining  out 
one  by  one.  The  Kendals  were .  alone  in  the  terrace,  far 
enough  from  the  gay  tumult  to  be  sensible  of  the  con- 
trast. 

'  How  beautiful ! '  said  Albinia  :  '  it  is  like  a  poem.' 

'  I  was  just  thinking  so,'  he  answered. 

'  This  is  the  best  part  of  all,'  she  said,  feeling,  though 
hardly  expressing  to  herself  the  repose  of  his  lofty,  silent 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  251 

serenity,  standing  aloof  from  gaiety  and  noise.  She  could 
have  compared  him  and  her  lively  cousin  to  the  evening 
stillness  contrasted  with  the  mirthful  scene  in  the  tent ; 
and  though  her  nature  seemed  to  belong  to  the  busy 
world,  her  best  enjoyment  lay  with  what  calmed  and 
raised  her  above  herself;  and  she  was  perfectly  happy, 
standing  still  with  her  arm  upon  that  of  her  silent  hu? 
band. 

'  These  things  are  well  imagined,'  said  he.  '  The  free- 
dom and  absence  of  formality'  give  space  for  being  alone 
and  quiet.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Albinia  saucily,  '  when  that  is  what  you 
go  into  society  for.' 

'  You  have  me  there,'  he  said,  smiling ;  '  but  I  must 
own  how  much  I  enjoyed  coming  back  from  the  parson- 
age by  myself.  I  am  glad  we  brought  that  little  Gene- 
vieve ;  she  seems  to  be  so  perfectly  in  her  element.  I 
saw  her  amusing  a  set  of  little  children  in  the  prettiest, 
most  animated  way  y  and  afterwards,  when  the  young 
people  were  playing  at  some  game,  her  gestures  were  so 
sprightly  and  graceful,  that  no  one  could  look  at  the 
English  girls  beside  her.  Indeed  I  think  she  was  mak- 
ing quite  a  sensation  ;  your  cousin  seemed  to  admire  her 
very  much.  If  she  were  but  in  another  station,  she 
would  shine  anywhere.' 

'  How  much  you  have  seen,  Edmund  ! ' 

'I  have  been  a  spectator,  you  an  actor,'  he  said, 
smiling. 

Her  quiescence  did  not  long  continue,  for  the  poor 
people  had  begun  to  assemble  on  the  gravel  road  before  the 
front  door  to  see  the  fireworks,  and  she  hurried  away  to 
renew  her  acquaintance  with  her  village  friends,  guessing 
at  them  in  the  dark,  asking  after  old  mothers  and  daugh- 
ters at  service,  inquiring  the  names  of  new  babies,  and 
whether  the  old  ones  were  at  school,  and  excusing  herself 
for  having  become  '  quite  a  stranger.' 

In  the  midst — wiiish — hiss,  with  steady  swiftness,  up 
shot  in  the  dark  purple  air  the  first  rocket,  bursting  and 
scattering  a  rain  of  stars.  There  was  an  audible  gasp  in 
the  surrounding  homely  world,  a  few  little  cries,  and  a 


2o2  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

big  boy  clutched  tight  hold  of  her  arm,  saying,  '  I  be 
afeard.'  She  was  explaining  away  his  alarms,  when  she 
heard  her  brother's  voice,  and  found  her  arm  drawn  into 
his. 

'Here  you  are,  then,'  he  said;  'I  thought  I  heard 
your  voice.' 

I  Oh  !  Maurice,  I  have  hardly  seen  you.  Let  us  have 
a  nice  quiet  turn  in  the  park  together.' 

He  resisted,  saying,  '  I  don't  approve  of  parents  and 
guardians  losing  themselves.  What  have  you  done  with 
all  your  children  ? ' 

'  What  have  you  done  with  yours  ?  '  retorted  she. 

I I  left  Willie  and  Mary  at  the  window  with  their 
governess ;  I  came  to  see  that  these  other  children  of 
mine  were  orderly.' 

'  Most  proper,  prudential,  and  exemplary  Maurice  ! ' 
his  sister  laughed.  '  Now  I  have  an  equally  hearty  be- 
lief in  my  children  being  somewhere,  sure  to  turn  up 
when  wanted.  Come,  I  want  to  get  out  from  the  trees 
to  look  for  Colonel  Bury's  harvest  moon,  for  I  believe 
she  is  an  imposition. 

1  No,  I'm  not  coming.  You  don't  understand  your  du- 
ties. Your  young  ladies  ought  always  to  know  where  to 
find  you,  and  you  where  to  find  them.' 

'  Oh  !  Maurice,  what  must  you  have  suffered  before 
you  imported  Winifred  to  chaperon  me  ! ' 

'  You  are  in  so  mad  a  mood,  that  I  shall  attempt  only 
one  moral  maxim,  and  that  is,  that  no  one  should  set  up 
for  a  chaperon,  till  she  has  retired  from  business  on  her 
own  account.' 

'  That's  a  stroke  at  my  dancing  with  poor  Fred,  but  it 
was  his  only  chance  of  speaking  to  me.' 

'  Not  particularly  at  the  dancing.' 

<  Well,  then—' 

*  You'll  see  by-and-bye.  It  was  not  your  fault  if  those 
girls  were  not  in  all  sorts  of  predicaments.' 

'  I  believe  you  think  life  is  made  up  of  predicaments. 
And  I  want  to  hear  whether  William  has  written  to  you 
anything  about  poor  Fred.' 

1  Only  that  he  is  more  mad  than  ever,  and  that  he  let 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  253 

him  go,  thinking  that  there  is  no  chance  of  Belraven  help- 
ing him,  but  that  it  may  wear  itself  out  on  the  journey.' 

A  revolving  circle  shedding  festoons  of  purple  and 
crimson  jets  of  fire  made  all  their  talk  interjectional,  and 
they  had  by  this  time  reached  the  terrace,  where  all  the 
company  were  assembled,  the  open  windows  at  regular 
intervals  casting  bewildering  lights  on  the  heads  and 
shoulders  in  front  of  them.  Then  out  burst  a  grand 
wheat-sheaf  of  yellow  flame  with  crimson  ears  and  beards, 
by  whose  light  Albinia  recognized  Gilbert  standing  close 
to  her  in  the  shadow,  and  asked  him  where  the  rest 
were. 

'  I  can't  tell ;  Lucy  and  my  father  were  here  just 
now.' 

'  Are  you  feeling  the  chill,  Gilbert  ?  '  asked  Albinia, 
struck  by  something  in  his  tone.  '  You  had  better  look 
from  the  window.' 

He  neither  moved  nor  made  answer,  but  a  great  illu- 
mination of  Colonel  Bury's  coat-of-arms,  with  Roman 
candles  and  Chinese  trees  at  the  four  corners,  engrossed 
every  eye,  and  flashing  on  every  face,  enabled  Albinia  to 
join  Mr.  Kendal,  who  was  "with  Lucy  and  Miss  Ferrars. 
No  one  knew  where  Genevieve  was,  but  Albinia  was  con- 
fident that  she  could  take  good  care  of  herself,  and  was 
not  too  uneasy  to  enjoy  the  grand  representation  of 
Windsor  Castle,  and  the  finale  of  interlaced  ciphers 
amidst  a  multitude  of  little  fretful  sputtering  tongues  of 
flame.  Then  it  was,  amid  good  nights,  donning  of  shawls, 
and  announcing  of  carriages,  that  Captain  Ferrars  and 
Miss  Durant  made  their  appearance  together,  having  been 
'  looking  everywhere  for  Mrs.  Kendal,'  and  it  was  not  in 
the  nature  of  a  brother  not  to  look  a  little  arch,  though 
Albinia  returned  him  as  resolute  and  satisfied  a  glance  as 
could  express  '  Well,  what  of  that  ?  ' 

In  consideration  of  the  night  air,  Mr.  Kendal  put  Gil- 
bert inside  the  carriage,  and  mounted  the  box,  to  revel  in 
the  pleasures  of  silence.  The  four  within  talked  inces- 
santly and  compared  adventures.  Lucy  had  been  grati- 
fied by  being  patronized  by  Miss  Ferrars,  and  likewise 
had  much  to  say  of  the  smaller  fry,  and  went  into  rap- 


254  THE   YOUKG    STEP-MOTHER. 

tures  about  many  a  '  dear  little  thing,'  none  of  whom 
would,  however,  stand  a  comparison  with  Maurice ;  Gil- 
bert was  critical  upon  every  one's  beauty  ;  and  Gene- 
vieve was  more  animated  than  all,  telling  anecdotes  with 
great  piquancy,  and  rehearsing  the  comical  Yankee  stories 
she  had  heard  from  Captain  Ferrars.  She  had  enjoyed 
with  the  zest  and  intensity  of  a  peculiarly  congenial  tem- 
perament, and  she  seemed  not  to  be  able  to  cease  from 
working  off  her  excitement  in  repetitions  of  her  thanks, 
and  in  discussing  the  endless  delights  the  day  had  afforded. 

But  the  day  had  begun  early,  and  the  way  was  long, 
so  remarks  became  scanty,  and  answers  were  brief  and 
went  astray,  and  Albinia  thought  she  was  travelling  for 
ever  to  Montreal,  when  she  was  startled  by  a  pettish  ex- 
clamation from  Lucy  ;  '  Is  that  all  ?  It  was  not  worth 
while  to  wake  me  only  to  see  the  moon.' 

{I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  Genevieve,  'but  I  thought 
Mrs.  Kendal  wished  to  see  it  rise.' 

'  Thank  you,  Genevieve,'  said  Albinia,  opening  her 
sleepy  eyes  ;  *  she  is  as  little  worth  seeing  as  a  moon  can 
well  be ;  a  waning  moon  does  well  to  keep  untimely 
hours.' 

'  Why  do  you  think  she  is  so  much  more  beautiful  in 
the  crescent,  Mrs.  Kendal  ? '  said  Genevieve,  in  the  most 
wakeful  manner. 

'  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,'  said  Albinia,  subsiding  into 
her  corner. 

1  Is  it  from  the  situation  of  the  mountains  in  the 
moon  %  '  continued  the  pertinacious  damsel. 

'  In  Africa  % '  said  Albinia,  well-nigh  asleep  ;  but  Gen- 
evieve's laugh  roused  her  again,  partly  because  she 
thought  it  less  mannerly  than  accorded  with  the  girl's 
usual  politeness.  No  more  sleep  was  allowed  her ;  an 
astronomical  passion  seemed  to  have  possessed  the  young 
lady,  and  she  dashed  into  the  tides,  and  the  causes  of  the 
harvest-moon,  and  volcanoes,  and  thunderbolts,  and  Lord 
Eosse's  telescope,  forcing  her  tired  friend  to  reply  by 
direct  appeals,  till  Albinia  almost  wished  her  in  the  moon 
herself;  and  was  rejoiced  when  in  the  dim  greyness  of 
the  early  summer  dawn,  the  carriage  drew  up  at  Madame 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER .  255 

Belmarche's  house.  As  the  light  from  the  weary  maid's 
candle  flashed  on  Genevieve's  face,  it  revealed  such  a  glow 
of  deep  crimson  on  each  brown  cheek,  that  Albinia  per- 
ceived that  the  excitement  must  have  been  almost  fever, 
and  went  to  bed  speculating  on  the  strange  effects  of  a 
touch  of  gaiety  on  the  hereditary  French  nature,  startling 
her  at  once  from  her  graceful  propriety  and  humility  of  de- 
meanour, into  such  extraordinary  obtrusive  talkativeness. 

She  heard  more  the  next  morning  that  vexed  her. 
Lucy  was  seriously  of  opinion  that  Genevieve  had  not 
been  sufficiently  retiring.  She  herself  had  needfully  kept 
under  the  wing  of  Mary's  governess,  mamma,  or  Miss 
Ferrars,  and  nobody  had  paid  her  any  particular  atten- 
tion ;  but  Genevieve  had  been  with  Gilbert  half  the  day, 
had  had  all  the  gentlemen  round  her  at  the  archery  and 
in  the  games,  had  no  end  of  partners  in  the  dances,  and 
had  walked  about  in  the  dark  with  Captain  Ferrars. 
Lucy  was  sure  she  was  taken  for  her  sister,  and  whenever 
she  had  told  people  the  truth,  they  had  said  how  pretty 
she  was.     '  You  are  jealous,  Lucy,'  Sophy  said. 

Lucy  protested  that  it  was  quite  the  reverse.  She 
was  glad  poor  little  Jenny  should  meet  with  any  notice ; 
there  was  no  cause  of  jealousy  of  her,  and  she  threw  back 
her  head  in  conscious  beauty  ;  '  only  she  was  sorry  for 
Jenny,  for  they  were  quite  turning  her  head,  and  laugh- 
ing at  her  all  the  time.' 

Abinia's  candour  burst  out  as  usual,  '  Say  no  more 
about  it,  my  dear ;  it  was  a  mistake  from  beginning  to 
end.  1  was  too  much  taken  up  with  my  own  diversion 
to  attend  to  you,  and  now  you  are  punishing  me  for  it. 
I  left  you  to  take  care  of  yourselves,  and  exposed  poor 
little  Genevieve  to  unkind  remarks.' 

'  I  don't  know  what  I  said,'  began  Lucy.  '  I  don't 
mean  to  blame  her ;  it  was  just  as  she  always  is  with 
Gilbert,  so  very  French.' 

That  word  settled  it — Lucy  pronounced  it  with  in- 
effable pity  and  contempt — she  was  fir  less  able  to  for- 
give another  for  being  attractive,  than  for  trying  to 
attract. 

Sophy  looked  excessively  hurt  and  grieved,  and  in 


256  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

private  asked  her  step-mother  what  she  thought  of  Gen- 
evi6ve's  behaviour. 

1  My  dear,  I  cannot  tell ;  I  think  she  was  off  her  guard 
with  excitement ;  but  all  was  very  new  to  her,  and  there 
was  every  excuse.  I  was  too  happy  to  be  wise,  so  no 
wonder  she  was.' 

'  And  do  you  think  Captain  Ferrars  was  laughing  at 
heL'  ?  I  wish  you  would  tell  her,  mamma.  Gilbert  says 
he  is  a  fine,  flourishing  officer  in  moustaches,  who,  he  is 
sure,  flirts  with  and  breaks  the  heart  of  every  girl  he 
meets.  If  he  is  right,  mamma,  it  would  cure  Genevieve 
to  tell  her  so,  and  you  would  not  mind  it,  though  he  is 
your  cousin.' 

1  Poor  Fred  ! '  said  Albinia.  '  I  am  sorry  Gilbert 
conceived  such  a  notion.  But  Genevieve's  heart  is  too 
sensible  to  break  in  that  way,  even  if  Fred  wished  it,  and 
I  can  acquit  him  of  such  savage  intentions.  I  never  should 
have  seen  any  harm  in  all  that  Genevieve  did  last  night 
if  she  had  not  talked  us  to  death  coming  home  !  Still  I 
think  she  was  off  her  balance  and  I  own  I  am  disappointed. 
But  we  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  born  French  ! ' 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

'  Mrs.  Kendal,  dear  Madame,  a  great  favour,  could 
you  spare  me  a  few  moments  ?  ' 

A  blushing  face  was  raised  with  such  an  expression 
of  contrite  timidity,  that  Albinia  felt  sure  that  the  poor 
little  Frenchwoman  had  recovered  from  her  brief  intoxi- 
cation, and  wanted  to  apologize  and  be  comforted,  so  she 
said  kindly, 

'  I  was  wishing  to  see  you,  my  dear  ;  I  was  afraid  the 
day  had  been  too  much  for  you  ;  I  was  certain  you  were 
feverish.' 

'  Ah  !  you  were  so  good  to  make  excuses  for  me.  I 
am  so  ashamed  when  I  think  how  tedious,  how  disagree- 


THE    YOUNG    BTEP-MOTHEK,  257 

able  I  must  have  been.  It  was  why  I  wished  to  speak  to 
you.' 

'  Never  mind  apologies,  my  dear  ;  I  have  felt  and 
done  the  like  many  a  time — it  is  the  worst  of  enjoying 
oneself.' 

'  Oh !  that  was  not  all — I  could  not  help  it — enjoy- 
ment— no  ! '  stammered  Genevieve.  '  If  you  would  be 
kind  enough  to  come  this  way.' 

She  opened  her  grandmother's  back  gate,  the  entrance 
to  a  slip  of  garden  smothered  in  laurels,  and  led  the  way 
to  a  small  green  arbour,  containing  a  round  table,  trans- 
formed by  calico  hangings  into  what  the  embroidered  in- 
scription called  'Autel  a  V Amour  filial  et  maternel] 
bearing  a  plaster  vase  full  of  fresh  flowers ;  but  ere  Ai- 
binia  had  time  to  admire  this  achievement  of  French  sen- 
timent, Genevieve  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands,  '  Oh, 
madame,  pardon  me,  you  who  are  so  good  !  You  will 
tell  no  one,  you  will  bring  on  him  no  trouble,  but  you 
will  tell  him  it  is  too  foolish — you  will  give  him  back  his 
billet,  and  forbid  him  ever  to  send  another.' 

Spite  of  the  confidence  about  Emily,  spite  of  all  un- 
reason, such  was  the  family  opinion  of  Fred's  propensity 
to  fall  in  love,  that  Albinia's  first  suspicion  lighted  upon 
him ;  but  as  her  eye  fell  on  the  pink  envelope  the  hand- 
writing concerned  her  even  more  nearly. 

'  Gilbert ! '  she  cried.  '  My  dear,  what  is  this  1  Do 
you  wish  me  to  read  it  1 ' 

'  Yes ;  for  I  cannot.'  Genevieve  turned  away,  as  in 
his  best  hand,  and  bad  it  was,  Albinia  read  the  commence- 
ment— 

'  My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  ! ' 

In  mute  astonishment  Albinia  looked  up,  and  met 
Genevieve's  eyes.  '  Oh,  madame,  you  are  displeased 
with  me  ! '  she  cried  in  despair,  misinterpreting  the  look  ; 
4  but  indeed  I  could  not  help  it.' 

'  My  dear  child,'  said  Albinia,  affectionately  putting 
her  arm  round  her  waist,  and  drawing  her  down  on  the 
seat  beside  her,  '  indeed  I  am  not  displeased  with  you  ; 
you  are  doing  the  very  best  thing  possible  by  us  all. 


258  THE   YOUXG    STEP-^I OTHER. 

Think  I  am  your  sister,  and  tell  me  what  is  the  meaning 
of  all  this,  and  then  I  will  try  to  help  you.' 

1  Oh,  madame,  you  are  too  good,'  said  Genevieve, 
weeping  ;  and  kindly  holding  the  trembling  hand,  Albinia 
finished  the  letter,  herself.  '  Silly  boy  !  Genevieve, 
dear  girl,  you  must  set  my  mind  at  rest ;  this  is  too 
childish — this  is  not  the  kind  of  thing  that  would  touch 
your  affections,  I  am  sure.' 

'  Oh  I  pour  cela  nonj  said  Genevieve.  '  Oh  !  no  ;  I 
am  grateful  to  Mr.  Gilbert  Kendal,  for,  even  as  a  little 
boy,  he  was  always  kind  to  me ;  but  for  the  rest — he  is 
so  young,  madame,  even  if  I  could  forget — ' 

'  I  see,'  said  Albinia.  '  I  am  sure  that  you  are  much 
too  good  and  sensible  at  your  age  to  waste  a  moment's 
thought  or  pain  on  such  a  foolish  boy,  as  he  certainly  is, 
Genevieve,  though  not  so  foolish  in  liking  you,  whatever 
he  may  be  in  the  way  of  expressing  it.  Though,  of  course 
— '  Albinia  had  floundered  into  a  dreadful  bewilderment 
between  her  sense  of  Genevieve's  merits  and  of  the  in- 
compatibility of  their  station,  and  she  plunged  out  by 
asking,  '  And  how  long  has  this  been  going  on  1 ' 

Genevieve  hesitated.  '  To  speak  the  truth,  madame, 
I  have  long  seen  that,  like  many  other  youths,  he  would 
be — very  attentive  if  one  were  not  guarded  ;  but  I  had 
known  him  so  long  that  perhaps  I  did  not  soon  enough 
begin  to  treat  him  enjeune  hommc? 

1  And  this  is  his  first  letter  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  yes,  madame.' 

'  He  complains  that  you  will  not  hear  him  1  Do  you 
dislike  to  tell  me  if  anything  had  passed  previously  %  ' 

'  Thursday,'  was  slightly  whispered. 

'  Thursday  !  ah  !  now  I  begin  to  understand  the  cause 
of  your  being  suddenly  moon-struck.' 

'  Ah  !  madame,  pardon  me  ! ' 

'  I  see — it  was  the  only  way  to  avoid  a  iite-a-teie  ! ' 
said  Albinia.  '  Well  done,  Genevieve.  What  had  he 
been  saying  to  you,  my  dear  % ' 

Poor  Genevieve  cast  about  for  a  word  and  finally  fal- 
tered out,  '  Des  sottlses,  Madan 


me. 


That  I  can  well  believe,'  said  Albinia.  '  Well,  my 
dear — ' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  259 

'  I  think,'  pursued  Genevieve,  '  that  he  was  vexed  be- 
cause I  would  not  let  him  absorb  me  exclusively  at  Fair- 
mead  ;  and  began  to  reproach  me,  and  protest — ' 

'  And  like  a  wise  woman  you  waked  the  sleeping 
dragon,'  said  Albinia.     '  Was  this  all  ? ' 

'  No,  madame ;  so  little  had  passed,  that  I  hoped  it 
was  only  the  excitement,  and  that  he  would  forget ;  but 
on  Saturday  he  met  me  in  the  flagged  path,  and  oh  !  he 
said  a  great  deal,  though  I  did  my  best  to  convince  him 
that  he  could  only  make  himself — be  laughed  at.  I  hoped 
even  then  that  he  was  silenced,  and  that  I  need  not  men- 
tion it,  but  I  see  he  has  been  watching  me,  and  I  dare  not 
go  out  alone  lest  I  should  meet  him.  He  called  this 
morning,  and  not  seeing  me  left  this  note.' 

'Do  your  grandmother  and  aunt  know  1 ' 

<  Oh,  no  !  1  would  for  rather  not  tell  them.  Need  1 1 
Oh !  madame,  surely  you  can  speak  to  him,  and  no  one 
need  ever  hear  of  it  ? '  implored  Genevieve.  '  You  have 
promised  me  that  no  one  shall  be  told ! ' 

'  No  one  shall,  my  dear.  I  hope  soon  to  tell  you  that 
he  is  heartily  ashamed  of  having  teased  you.  No  one 
need  be  ashamed  of  thinking  you  very  dear  and  good — 
you  can't  help  being  loveable,  but  Master  Gibbie  has  no 
right  to  tell  you  so,  and  we'll  put  an  end  to  it.  He  will 
soon  be  in  India  out  of  your  way.     Good-bye  ! ' 

Albinia  kissed  the  confused  and  blushing  maiden,  and 
walked  away,  provoked,  yet  diverted. 

She  found  Gilbert  alone,  and  was  not  slow  in  coming 
to  the  point,  endeavouring  to  model  her  treatment  on 
that  of  her  brother,  the  General,  towards  his  aide-de-camp 
in  the  like  predicaments. 

1  Gilbert,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  am  afraid  you 
have  been  making  yourself  troublesome  to  Miss  Durant. 
You  are  old  enough  to  know  better  than  to  write  such  a 
note  as  this.' 

He  was  all  one  blush,  made  an  inarticulate  exclama- 
tion, and  burst  out  '  That  abominable  treacherous  old 
wooden  doll  of  a  mademoiselle.' 

1  No,  Miss  Bel  m  arch  e  knows  nothing  of  it.  No  one 
ever  shall  if  you  will  promise  to  drive  this  nonsense  out 
of  your  head.' 


260  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

'  Nonsense  !  Mrs.  Kendal ! '  with  a  gesture  of  misery. 

1  Gilbert,  you  are  making  yourself  absurd.' 

He  turned  about,  and  would  have  marched  out  of  the 
room,  but  she  pursued  him.  '  You  must  listen  to  me. 
It  is  not  fit  that  you  should  carry  on  this  silly  impor- 
tunity. It  is  exceedingly  distressing  to  her,  and  might 
lead  to  very  unpleasant  and  hurtful  remarks.'  Seeing 
him  look  sullen,  she  took  breath,  and  considered.  '  She 
came  to  me  in  great  trouble,  and  begged  me  to  restore 
jour  letter,  and  tell  you  never  to  repeat  the  liberty.' 

He  struck  his  hand  on  his  brow,  crying  vehemently, 
1  Cruel  girl !  She  little  knows  me — you  little  know  me, 
if  you  think  I  am  to  be  silenced  thus.  I  tell  you  I  will 
never  cease  !  I  am  not  bound  by  your  pride,  which  has 
sneered  down  and  crushed  the  loveliest — ' 

'Not  mine,'  said  Albinia,  disconcerted  at  his  unex- 
pected violence. 

1  Yes  ! '  he  exclaimed.  '  I  know  you  could  patronize  ! 
but  a  step  beyond,  and  it  is  all  the  same  with  you  as  with 
the  rest — you  despise  the  jewel  without  the  setting.' 

'  No,'  said  Albinia,  '  so  far  from  depreciating  her,  I 
want  to  convince  you  that  it  is  an  insult  to  pursue  her  in 
this  ridiculous  underhand  way.' 

'  You  do  me  no  justice,'  said  Gilbert  loftily  ;  '  you 
little  understand  what  you  are  pleased  to  make  game 
of; '  and  with  one  of  his  sudden  alternations,  he  dropped 
into  a  chair,  calling  himself  the  most  miserable  fellow  in 
the  world,  unpitied  where  he  would  gladly  offer  his  life, 
and  his  tenderest  feelings  derided,  and  he  was  so  nearly 
ready  to  cry,  that  Albinia  pitied  him,  and  said,  '  I'll  laugh 
no  more  if  I  can  help  it,  Gibbie,  but  indeed  you  are  too 
young  for  all  this  misery  to  be  real.  I  don't  mean  that 
you  are  pretending,  but  only  that  this  is  your  own  fancy.' 

1  Fancy  ! '  said  the  boy  solemnly.  '  The  happiness  of 
my  life  is  at  stake.  She  shall  be  the  sharer  of  all  that  is 
mine,  the  moment  my  property  is  in  my  own  hands.' 

;  And  do  you  think  so  high-minded  a  girl  would  listen 
to  you,  and  take  advantage  of  a  fancy  in  a  boy  so  much 
younger,  and  of  a  different  class  1 ' 

'  It  would  be  ecstasy  to  raise  her,  and  lay  all  at  her 
feet ! ' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  261 

1  So  it  might,  if  it  were  worthy  of  her  to  accept  it. 
Gilbert,  if  you  knew  what  love  is,  you  would  never  wish 
her  to  lower  herself  by  encouraging  you  now.  She  would 
be  called  artful — designing — ' 

'  If  she  loved  me — '  he  said  disconsolately. 

'  I  wish  I  could  bring  you  to  see  how  unlikely  it  is 
that  a  sensible,  superior  woman  could  really  attach  her- 
self to  a  mere  lad.  An  unprincipled  person  might  pre- 
tend it  for  the  sake  of  your  property — a  silly  one  might 
like  you  because  you  are  good-looking  and  well  man- 
nered ;  but  neither  would  be  Genevieve.' 

'  There  is  no  use  in  saying  any  more,'  he  said,  rising 
in  offended  dignity. 

'  I  cannot  let  you  go  till  you  have  given  me  your 
word  never  to  obtrude  your  folly  on  Miss  Durant  again.' 

1  Have  you  anything  else  to  ask  me  ?  '  cried  Gilbert, 
in  a  melo-dramatic  tone. 

;  Yes,  how  would  you  like  your  father  to  know  cf 
this  %  It  is  her  secret,  and  I  shall  keep  it,  unless  you  are 
so  selfish  as  to  continue  the  pursuit,  and  if  so,  I  must  have 
recourse  to  his  authority.' 

'  Oh !  Mrs.  Kendal,'  he  said,  actually  weeping,  '  you 
have  always  pitied  me  hitherto.' 

1  A  man  should  not  ask  for  pity,'  said  Albinia  ;  '  but 
I  am  sorry  for  you,  for  she  is  an  admirable  person,  and  I 
see  you  are  very  unhappy  ;  but  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help 
you,  and  you  will  get  over  it,  if  you  are  reasonable. 
Now  understand  me,  I  will  and  must  protect  Genevieve, 
and  I  shall  appeal  to  your  father  unless  you  promise  me 
to  desist  from  this  persecution.' 

The  debate  might  have  been  endless,  if  Mr.  Kendal 
had  not  been  heard  coming  in.  '  You  promise  1 '  she 
said.  '  Yes,'  was  the  faint  reply,  in  nervous  terror  of 
immediate  reference  to  his  father  ;  and  they  hurried  dif- 
ferent ways,  trying  to  look  unconcerned. 

'  Never  mind,'  said  Albinia  to  herself.  '  Was  not 
Fred  quite  as  bad  about  me,  and  look  at  him  now  !  Yes, 
Gilbert  must  go  to  India,  it  will  cure  him  ;  or  if  it  should 
not,  his  affection  will  be  respectable,  and  worth  consid- 
eration.     If  he  were  but  older,  and  this  were  the  genuine 


262  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

article,  I  would  fight  for  him,  but — '  And  she  sat  down 
to  write  a  loving  note  to  Genevieve.  Her  sanguine  dis- 
position made  her  trust  that  all  would  blow  over,  but  her 
experience  of  the  cheerful  buoyant  Ferrars  temperament 
was  no  guide  to  the  morbid  Kendal  disposition  ;  Gilbert 
lay  on  the  grass  limp  and  doleful  till  the  fall  of  the  dew, 
when  he  betook  himself  to  a  sofa;  and  in  the  morning 
turned  up  his  eyes  reproachfully  at  her  instead  of  eating 
his  breakfast. 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  Fairmead  pony-carriage 
stopped  at  the  door,  containing  Mr.  Ferrars,  the  Captain, 
Aunt  Gertrude,  and  little  Willie.  Albinia,  her  husband, 
and  Lucy,  were  soon  in  the  drawing-room  welcoming 
them  ;  and  Lucy  fetched  her  little  brother,  who  had  been 
vociferous  for  three  clays  about  cousin  Fred,  the  real  sol- 
dier, but  now,  struck  with  awe  at  the  mighty  personage, 
stood  by  his  mamma,  profoundly  silent,  and  staring.  He 
was  ungracious  to  his  aunt,  and  still  more  so  to  Willie, 
the  latter  of  whom  was  despatched  under  Lucy's  charge 
to  find  Gilbert,  but  they  came  back  unsuccessful.  Nor 
did  Sophy  make  her  appearance  ;  she  was  reported  to  be 
reading  to  grandmamma — Mrs.  Meadows  preferred  to 
Miss  Ferrars  !  there  was  more  in  this  than  Albinia  could 
make  out,  and  she  sat  uneasily  till  she  could  exchange  a 
few  words  with  Lucy.  '  My  dear,  what  is  become  of  the 
other  two  ? ' 

'  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
them,'  said  Lucy.  i  Gilbert  is  gone  out — nobody  knows 
where — and  when  I  told  Sophy  who  was  here,  she  said 
Captain  Ferrars  was  an  empty-headed  coxcomb,  and  she 
did  not  want  to  see  him  ! ' 

'  Oh  !  the  geese ! '  murmured  Albinia  to  herself,  till 
the  comical  suspicion  crossed  her  mind  that  Gilbert  was 
jealous,  and  that  Sophy  was  afraid  of  falling  a  victim  to 
the  redoubtable  lady-killer. 

Luncheon-time  produced  Soph}7,  grave  and  silent,  but 
no  Gilbert,  and  Mr.  Kendal,  receiving  no  satisfactory  ac- 
count of  his  absence,  said,  '  Very  strange,'  and  looked 
annoyed. 

Captain  Ferrars  seemed  to  have  expected  to  see  his 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  263 

bright  little  partner  of  Thursday,  for  he  inquired  for  her, 
and  Willie  imparted  the  information  that  Fred  had  taken 
her  for  Sophy  all  the  time !  Fred  laughed,  and  owned 
it,  but  asked  if  she  were  not  really  the  governess'?  '  A 
governess',  said  Albinia,  '  but  not  ours  ; '  and  an  explana- 
tion followed,  during  which  Sophy  blushed  violently,  and 
held  up  her  head  as  if  she  had  an  iron  bar  in  her  neck. 

'  A  pity,'  said  the  lancer,  when  he  heard  who  she  was, 
and  under  his  moustache  he  murmured  to  Albinia, '  She  is 
rather  in  Emily's  style.' 

'  Oh,  Fred,'  thought  Albinia,  '  after  all,  it  may  be 
lucky  that  you  aren't  going  to  stay  here  ! ' 

When  Albinia  was  alone  with  her  brother,  she  could 
not  help  saying,  '  Maurice,  you  were  right  to  scold  me  ;  I 
reproached  you  with  thinking  life  made  up  of  predica- 
ments.    I  think  mine  is  made  of  blunders  ! ' 

'  Ah !  I  saw  you  were  harassed  to-day,'  said  her  brother 
kindly. 

'  Whenever  one  is  happy,  one  does  something  wrong  ! ' 

'  I  guess — ' 

'  You  are  generous  not  to  say  you  warned  me  months 
ago.  Mind,  it  is  no  fault  of  hers,  she  is  behaving  beauti- 
fully ;  but  oh !  the  absurdity,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  I 
have  promised  not  to  tell  Edmund.' 

'Then  don't  tell  me.  You  have  a  judgment  quite 
good  enough  for  use.' 

'  No,  I  have  not.  I  have  only  sense,  and  that  only 
serves  me  for  what  other  people  ought  to  do.' 

'  Then  ask  Albinia  what  Mrs.  Kendal  ought  to  do.' 

Gilbert  came  in  soon  after  their  departure,  with  an 
odd,  dishevelled,  abstracted  look,  and  muttering  some- 
thing inaudible  about  not  knowing  the  time.  Tlis  depres- 
sion absolutely  courted  notice,  but  as  a  slight  .cough 
would  at  any  time  reduce  him  to  despair,  he  obtained  no 
particular  'observation,  except  from  Sophy,  who  made 
much  of  him,  flushed  at  Genevieve's  name,  and  looked 
reproachful,  that  it  was  evident  that  she  was  his  confi- 
dante. Several  times  did  Albinia  try  to  lead  her  to  enter 
on  the  subject,  but  she  set  up  her  screen  of  silence.  It 
was  disappointing,  for  Albinia  had  believed  better  things 


264  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

of  her  sense,  and  hardly  made  allowance  for  the  different 
aspect  of  the  love-sorrows  of  seventeen,  viewed  from  fif- 
teen or  twenty-six — vexatious,  too,  to  be  treated  with  dry 
reserve,  and  probably  viewed  as  a  rock  in  the  course  of 
true  love ;  and  provoking  to  see  perpetual  tete-a-letes  that 
could  hardly  fail  to  fill  Sophy's  romantic  head  with  folly. 

At  the  end  of  another  week,  Albinia  received  the  fol- 
lowing note  : — 

Dear  and  most  kind  Madame, 

'  I  would  not  trouble  you  again,  but  this  is  the 
third  within  four  days.  I  returned  the  two  former  ones 
to  himself,  but  he  continues  to  write.  May  I  ask  your 
permission  to  speak  to  my  relatives,  for  I  feel  that  I 
ought  to  hide  this  no  longer  from  them,  and  that  we  must 
take  some  measures  for  ending  it.  He  does  me  the  hon- 
our to  wait  near  the  house,  and  I  never  dare  go  out,  since 
— for  I  will  confess  all  to  you,  madame — he  met  me  by 
the  river  on  Monday.  I  am  beginning  to  fear  that  his 
assiduities  have  been  observed,  and  I  should  be  much 
obliged  if  you  would  tell  me  how  to  act.  Your  kind  per- 
severance in  your  goodness  towards  me  is  my  greatest 
comfort,  and  I  hope  that  you  will  still  continue  it,  for 
indeed  it  is  most  unwillingly  that  I  am  a  cause  of  per- 
plexity and  vexation  to  you.  Entreating  your  pardon, 
'  Your  most  faithful  and  obliged  servant, 

'  Genevieve  Celeste  Durant.' 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  That  broken  pledge  over- 
powered Albinia  with  a  personal  sense  of  shame,  and 
though  it  set  her  free,  to  tell  all  to  her  husband,  she 
shrank  from  provoking  his  stem  displeasure  towards  his 
son,  and  feared  he  might  involve  Genevieve  in  his  anger. 
She  dashed  off  a  note  to  her  poor  little  friend,  telling  her 
,  to  do  as  she  thought  fit  by  her  aunt  and  grandmother, 
and  then  sought  another  interview  with  the  reluctant  Gil- 
bert, to  whom  she  returned  the  letter,  saying,  '  Oh,  Gil- 
bert, at  least  I  thought  you  would  keep  your  word.' 

'  I  think/  he  said,  angrily,  trying  for  dignity,  though 
bewrayed  by  his  restless  eyes  and  hands — '  I  think  it  is 
too  much  to  accuse  me  of — of — when  I  never  said — 
What  word  did  I  ever  give  ? ' 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  265 

I  You  promised  never  to  persecute  her  again.' 

'  There  may  be  two  opinions  as  to  what  persecution 
means,'  said  Gilbert. 

I I  little  thought  of  subterfuges.     I  trusted  you.' 

1  Mrs.  Kendal !  hear  me,'  he  passionately  cried.  '  You 
knew  not  the  misery  you  imposed.  To  live  so  near,  and 
not  a  word,  not  a  look  !  I  bore  it  as  long  as  I  could ; 
but  when  Sophy  would  not  so  much  as  take  one  message, 
human  nature  could  not  endure.' 

'  Well,  if  you  cannot  restrain  yourself  like  a  rational 
creature,  some  means  must  be  taken  to  free  Miss  Durant 
from  a  pursuit  so  injurious  and  disagreeable  to  her.' 

'  Ay,'  he  cried, '  you  have  filled  her  with  your  own 
prejudices,  and  inspired  her  with  such  a  dread  of  the 
hateful  fences  of  society,  that  she  does  not  dare  to  con- 
fess— ' 

'  For  shame,  Gilbert,  you  are  accusing  her  of  acting  a 
part.' 

1  No  ! '  he  exclaimed,  '  all  I  say  is,  that  she  has  been 
so  thrust  down  and  forced  back,  that  she  cannot  venture 
to  avow  her  feelings  even  to  herself! ' 

'  Oh  ! '  said  Albinia,  '  you  conceited  person  ! ' 

*  Well ! '  cried  the  boy,  so  much  nettled  by  her  sar, 
casm  that  he  did  not  know  what  he  said,  '  I  think — con- 
sidering— considering  our  situations,  I  might  be  worth 
her  consideration ! ' 

1  Who  put  that  in  your  head  ? '  asked  Albinia.  '  You 
are  too  much  a  gentleman  for  it  to  have  come  there  of 
its  own  accord.' 

He  blushed  excessively,  and  retracted.  '  No,  no ! 
I  did  not  mean  that !  No,  I  only  mean  I  have  no  fair 
play — she  will  not  even  think.  Oh  !  if  I  had  but  been 
born  in  the  same  station  of  life  ! ' 

Gilbert  making  entrechats  with  a  little  fiddle  !  It  had 
nearly  overthrown  her  gravity,  and  she  made  no  direct 
answer,  only  saying,  '  Well,  Gilbert,  these  talks  are  use- 
less. I  only  thought  it  right  to  give  you  notice  that  you 
have  released  me  from  my  engagement  not  to  make  your 
father  aware  of  your  folly.' 

He  went  into  an  agony  of  entreaties,  and  proffers  of 

12 


266  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

promises,  but  no  more  treaties  of  secrecy  could  he  ob- 
tain ;  she  would  only  say  that  she  should  not  speak  im- 
mediately, she  should  wait  and  see  how  things  turned 
out.  By  which  she  meant,  how  soon  it  might  be  hoped 
that  he  would  be  safe  in  the  Calcutta  bank,  where  she 
heartily  wished  him. 

She  sought  a  conference  with  Genevieve,  and  took  her 
out  walking  in  the  meadows,  for  the  poor  child  really 
needed  change  and  exercise ;  the  fear  of  Gilbert  had  made 
her  imprison  herself  within  the  little  garden,  till  she 
looked  sallow  and  worn.  She  said  that  her  grandmother 
and  aunt  had  decided  that  she  should  go  in  a  couple  of 
days  to  the  Convent  at  Hadminster,  to  remain  there 
till  Mr.  Gilbert  went  to  India — the  superior  was  an  old 
friend  of  her  aunt,  and  Genevieve  had  often  been  there, 
and  knew  all  the  nuns. 

Albinia  was  startled  by  this  project.  'My  dear,  I 
had  much  rather  send  you  to  stay  at  my  brother's,  or — 
anywhere.  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  running  into  temp- 
tation ? ' 

'  Not  of  that  kind,'  said  Genevieve.  '  The  priest,  Mr. 
O'Hara,  is  a  good-natured  old  gentleman,  not  in  the  least 
disposed  to  trouble  himself  about  my  conversion.' 

I  And  the  sisters  ? ' 

c  Good  old  ladies,  they  have  always  been  very  kind  to 
me,  and  petted  me  exceedingly  when  I  was  a  little  child  ; 
but  for  the  rest — '  still  seeing  Albinia's  anxious  look — 
'  Oh !  they  would  not  think  of  it ;  I  don't  believe  they 
could  argue ;  they  are  not  like  the  new-fashioned  Roman 
Catholics  of  whom  you  are  thinking,  madame.' 

'  And  are  there  no  enthusiastic  young  novices  ? ' 

I I  should  think  no  one  would  ever  be  a  novice  there, 
said  Genevieve. 

'  You  seem  to  be  bent  on  destroying  all  the  romance 
of  convents,  Genevieve  ! ' 

;  '  I  never  thought  of  anything  romantic  connected  with 
the  reverend  mothers,'  rejoined  Genevieve ;  '  and  yet 
when  I  recollect  how  they  came  to  Hadminster,  I  think 
you  will  be  interested.  You  know  the  family  at  Had- 
minster Hall  in  the  last  century  were  Roman  Catholics, 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-M OTHER.  267 

and  a  daughter  had  professed  at  a  convent  in  France. 
At  the  time  of  the  revolution,  her  brother,  the  esquire, 
wrote  to  offer  her  an  asylum  at  his  house.  The  day  of 
her  arrival  was  fixed — behold  !  a  stage-coach  draws  up  to 
the  door — black  veils  inside — black  veils  clustered  on  the 
roof — a  black  veil  beside  the  coachman  on  the  box — 
eighteen  nuns  alight,  and  the  poor  old  infirm  abbess  is 
lifted  out.  They  had  not  even  figured  to  themselves  that 
the  invitation  could  be  to  one  without  the  whole  sister- 
hood ! ' 

'  And  what  did  the  esquire  do  with  the  good  ladies  ?  • 

1  He  took  them  as  a  gift  from  Providence  ;  he  raised 
a  subscription  among  his  friends,  and  they  were  lodged  in 
the  house  at  Hadminster,  where  something  like  a  sister- 
hood had  striven  to  exist  ever  since  the  days  of  James  II.' 

*  Are  any  of  these  sisters  living  still  ? ' 

1  Only  poor  old  Mother  Therese,  who  was  a  little  pen- 
sionnaire  when  they  came,  and  now  is  blind,  and  never 
quits  her  bed.  There  are  only  seven  sisters  at  present, 
and  none  of  them  are  less  than  five-and-forty.' 

'  And  what  shall  you  do  there,  Genevieve  ? ' 

'  If  they  have  any  pupils  from  the  town,  perhaps  I 
may  help  to  teach  them  French.  And  I.  shall  have  plenty 
of  time  for  my  music.  Oh !  madame,  would  you  lend 
me  a  little  of  your  music  to  copy  ? ' 

'  With  all  my  heart.     Any  books  ? ' 

'  Oh !  that  would  be  the  greatest  kindness  of  all ! 
And  if  it  were  not  presuming  too  much,  if  madame  would 
let  me  take  the  pattern  of  that  beautiful  point  lace  that 
she  sometimes  wears  in  the  evening,  then  I  should  make 
myself  welcome ! ' 

'  And  put  out  your  eyes,  my  dear !  But  you  may 
turn  out  my  whole  lace-drawer  if  you  think  any  tiling 
there  will  be  a  pleasure  to  the  old  ladies.' 

'  Ah  !  you  do  not  guess  the  pleasure,  madame.  Nee- 
dlework and  embroidery  is  their  excitement  and  delight. 
They  will  ask  me  closely  about  all  I  have  seen  and  done 
for  months  past,  and  the  history  of  the  day  at  Fairmead 
will  be  a  fete  in  itself.' 

1  Well !  my  dear,  it  is  very  right  of  you  ;  and  I  do 


268  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEK. 

feel  very  thankful  to  you  for  treating  the  matter  thus. 
Pray  tell  your  grandmamma  and  aunt  to  pardon  the  sad 
revolution  we  have  made  in  their  comfort,  and  that  I  hope 
it  will  soon  be  over  ! ' 

Genevieve  took  no  leave.  Albinia  sent  her  a  goodly 
parcel  of  books  and  work-patterns,  and  she  returned  an 
affectionate  note ;  but  did  not  attempt  to  see  Lucy  and 
Sophy. 

The  next  Indian  mail  brought  the  expected  letter,  giv- 
ing an  exact  account  of  the  acquirements  and  habits  that 
would  be  required  of  Gilbert,  with  a  promise  of  a  home 
where  he  would  be  treated  as  a  son,  and  of  admission  to 
the  firm  after  due  probation.  The  letter  was  so  sensible 
and  affectionate,  that  Mr.  Kendal  congratulated  his  son 
upon  such  an  advantageous  outset  in  life. 

Gilbert  made  slight  reply,  but  the  next  morning 
Sophy  sought  Albinia  out,  and  with  some  hesitation 
began  to  tell  her  that  Gilbert  was  very  anxious  that  she 
would  intercede  with  papa  not  to  send  him  to  Calcutta. 

'  You  now,  Sophy  ! '  cried  Albinia.  '  You  who  used 
to  think  nothing  equal  to  India  ! ' 

'  I  wish  it  were  I,'  said  Sophy  ;  '  but  you  know — ' 

'  Well,'  said  Albinia,  coldly. 

Sophy  was  too  shy  to  begin  on  that  tack,  and  dashed 
off  on  another. 

'  Oh,  mamma,  he  is  so  wretched.  He  can't  bear  to 
thwart  papa,  but  lie  says  it  would  break  his  heart  to  go 
so  far  away,  and  that  he  knows  it  would  kill  him  to  be 
confined  to  a  desk  in  that  climate.' 

'  You  know  papa  thinks  that  nothing  would  confirm 
his  health  so  much  as  a  few  years  without  an  English 
winter.' 

'  One's  own  instinct — '  began  Sophy ;  then  breaking 
off,  she  added,  '  Mamma,  you  never  were  for  the  bank.' 

'  I  used  not  to  see  the  expediency,  and  I  did  not  like 
the  parting ;  but  now  I  understand  your  father's  wishes, 
and  the  sort  of  allegiance  he  feels  towards  India,  so  that 
Gilbert's  reluctance  will  be  a  great  mortification  to  him.' 
■  *  So  it  will,'  said  Sophy,  mournfully  ;  '  I  am  sure  it  is 
to  me.     I  always  looked  forward  to  Gilbert's  going  to 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  269 

Talloon,  and  seeing  the  dear  old  bearer,  and  taking  all 
my  presents  there ;  but  you  see,  of  course,  mamma,  he 
cannot  bear  to  go — ' 

'  Sophy,  dear,'  said  Albinia,  '  you  have  been  thinking 
me  a  very  hard-hearted  woman  this  last  month.  I  have 
been  longing  to  have  it  out.' 

*  Not  hard-hearted,'  said  Sophy,  looking  down  ;  '  only 
I  had  always  thought  you  different  from  other  people.' 

'  And  you  considered  that  I  was  worldly,  and  not 
romantic  enough.     Is  that  it,  Sophy  %  ' 

1  I  thought  you  knew  how  to  value  her  for  herself,  so 
good  and  so  admirable — a  lady  in  everything — with  such 
perfect  manners.  I  thought  you  would  have  been  pleased 
and  proud  that  Gilbert's  choice  was  so  much  nobler  than 
beauty,  or  rank,  or  fashion  could  make  it,'  said  Sophy, 
growing  enthusiastic  as  she  went  on. 

1  Well,  my  dear,  perhaps  I  am.' 

'  But,  mamma,  you  have  done  all  you  could  to  sep- 
arate them :  you  have  shut  Genevieve  up  in  a  convent, 
and  you  want  to  banish  him.' 

'  It  sounds  very  grand,  and  worthy  of  a  cruel  step- 
dame,'  said  Albinia ;  '  but,  my  dear,  though  I  do  think 
Genevieve  in  herself  an  admirable  creature,  worthy  of 
any  one's  love,  what  am  I  to  think  of  the  way  Gilbert 
has  taken  to  show  his  admiration  ? ' 

1  And  is  it  not  very  hard,'  cried  Sophy, '  that  even  you, 
who  own  all  her  excellences,  should  turn  against  him,  and 
give  in  to  all  this  miserable  conventionality  that  wants 
riches  and  station,  and  trumpery  worldly  things,  and 
crushes  down  true  love  in  two  young  hearts  ? ' 

*  Sophy  dear,  I  am  afraid  the  love  is  not  proved  to  be 
true  in  the  one  heart,  and  I  am  sure  there  is  none  in  the 
other ! ' 

'  Mamma  !     'Tis  her  self-command — ' 

1  Nonsense !  His  attentions  are  nothing  but  distress 
•to  her  !  Sensible  grown-up  young  women  are  not  apt  to 
be  flattered  by  importunity  from  silly  boys.  Has  he  told 
you  otherwise  ? ' 

'  He  thinks — he  hopes,  at  least — and  I  am  sure — it  is 
all  stifled  by  her  sense  of  duty;  and  fear  of  offending  you, 
or  appearing  mercenary.' 


270  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

'  All  delusion  ! '  said  Albinia ;  '  there's  not  a  spark  of 
consciousness  about  her  !  I  see  you  don't  like  to  believe 
it,  but  it  is  my  great  comfort.  Think  how  she  would 
suffer  if  she  did  love  him  !  Nay,  think,  before  you  are 
angry  with  me  for  not  promoting  it,  how  it  would  bring 
them  into  trouble  and  disgrace  with  all  the  world,  even 
if  your  father  consented.  Have  you  once  thought  how  it 
would  appear  to  him  ? ' 

1  You  can  persuade  papa  to  anything.' 

'  Sophy  !  you  ought  to  know  your  father  better  than 
to  isay  that ! '  cried  Albinia,  as  if  it  had  been  disrespect  to 
him. 

'  Then  you  think  he  would  never  allow  it !  You  really 
think  that  such  a  creature  as  Genevieve,  as  perfect  a  lady 
as  ever  existed,  must  always  be  a  victim  to  these  hateful 
rules  about  station.' 

'  No,'  said  Albinia,  '  certainly  not ;  but  if  she  were  in 
the  very  same  rank,  if  all  else  were  suitable,  Gilbert's  age 
would  make  the  pursuit  ridiculous.' 

'  Only  three  years  younger,'  sighed  Sophy.  '  But  if 
they  were  the  same  age  ?  Do  you  mean  that  no  one 
ever  ought  to  marry,  if  they  love  ever  so  much,  where 
the  station  is  different  %  ' 

'  No,  but  that  they  must  not  do  so  lightly,  but  try 
the  love  first  to  see  whether  it  be  worth  the  sacrifice.  If 
an  attachment  last  through  many  years  of  adverse  cir- 
cumstances, I  think  the  happiness  of  the  people  has  been 
shown  to  depend  on  each  other ;  but  I  don't  think  it  safe 
to  disregard  disparities  till  there  has  been  some  test  that 
the  love  is  the  right  stuff,  or  else  they  may  produce  ill- 
temper,  regrets,  and  unhappiness,  all  the  rest  of  their 
lives.' 

'  If  Gilbert  went  on  for  years,  mamma  % ' 

' 1  did  not  say  that,  Sophy.' 

1  Suppose,'  continued  the  eager  girl,  '  he  went  out  to 
Calcutta,  and  worked  these  five  years,  and  was  made  a 
partner.  Then  he  would  be  two-and-twenty,  nobody 
could  call  him  too  young,  and  he  would  come  home,  and 
ask  papa's  consent,  and  you — ' 

'  I  should  call  that  constancy,'  said  Albinia. 


THE  YOUXG   STEP-MOTHEE.  271 

1  And  he  would  take  her  out  to  Calcutta,  and  have  no 
Drurys  and  Osborns  to  bother  her  !  Oh  !  it  would  be 
beautiful !  I  would  watch  over  her  while  he  was  gone  J 
I'll  go  and  tell  him  ! ' 

8  Stop,  Sophy,  not  from  me — that  would  never  do.  I 
don't  think  papa  would  think  twenty-two  such  a  great 
age—' 

'  But  he  would  have  loved  her  five  years ! '  said 
Sophy.  '  And  you  said  yourself  that  would  be  con- 
stancy ! ' 

1  True ;  but,  Sophy,  I  have  known  a  youth  who  sailed 
broken-hearted,  and  met  a  lady  "just  in  the  style"  of  the 
former  one,  on  board  the  steamer — ' 

Sophy  made  a  gesture  of  impatient  disdain,  and  re- 
peated, '  Do  you  allow  me  to  tell  Gilbert  that  this  is  the 
way  % ' 

1  Xot  from  me.  I  hold  out  no  hope.  I  don't  believe 
Genevieve  cares  for  him,  and  I  don't  know  whether  his 
father  would  consent — '  but  seeing  Sophy's  look  of  disap- 
pointment, '  I  see  no  harm  in  your  suggesting  it,  for  it  is 
his  only  chance  with  either  of  them,  and  would  be  the 
proof  that  his  affection  was  good  for  something.' 

'  And  you  think  her  worth  it  ? ' 

1  I  think  her  worth  anything  in  the  world — the  more 
for  her  behaviour  in  this  matter.  I  only  doubt  if  Gilbert 
have  any  conception  how  much  she  is  worth.' 

Away  went  Sophy  in  a  glow  that  made  her  almost 
handsome,  while  Albinia,  as  usual,  wondered  at  her  own 
imprudence. 

At  luncheon  Sophy  avoided  her  eye,  and  looked  crest- 
fallen, and  when  afterwards  she  gave  a  mute  inquiring 
address,  shook  her  head  impatiently.  It  was  plain  that 
she  had  foiled,  and  was  too  much  pained  and  shamed  by 
his  poorness  of  spirit  to  be  able  as  yet  to  speak  of  it. 

Next  came  Gilbert,  who  pursued  Albinia  to  the  morn- 
ing-room to  entreat  her  interference  in  his  behalf,  appeal- 
ing piteously  to  her  kindness  ;  but  she  was  obdurate.  If 
any  remonstrance  were  offered  to  his  father,  it  must  be 
by  himself. 

Gilbert  fell  into  a  state  of  misery,  threw  himself 


272  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

about  upon  the  chairs,  and  muttered  in  the  fretfulness  of 
childish  despair  something  about  its  being  very  hard, 
when  he  was  owner  of  half  the  town,  to  be  sent  into  exile 
— it  was  like  jealousy  of  his  growing  up  and  being 
master. 

1  Take  care,  Gilbert ! '  said  Albinia,  with  a  flash  of 
her  eye  that  he  felt  to  his  backbone. 

'  I  don't  mean  it,'  cried  Gilbert,  springing  towards  her" 
in  supplication.  *  I've  heard  it  said,  that's  all,  and  was  as 
angry  as  you  ;  but  when  a  fellow  is  beside  himself  with 
misery  at  being  driven  away  from  all  he  loves — not  a 
friend  to  help  him — how  can  he  keep  from  thinking  all 
sorts  of  things  ? ' 

*  I  wonder  what  people  dare  to  say  it ! '  cried  Albinia 
wrathfully ;  but  he  did  not  heed,  he  wTas  picturing  his 
own  future  misfortunes — toil — climate — fevers — choleras 
— Thugs — coups  de  soleil — genuine  dread  and  repugnance 
working  him  up  to  positive  agony. 

'  Gilbert,'  said  Albinia, '  this  is  trumpery  self-torture  ! 
You  know  this  is  a  mere  farrago  that  you  have  conjured 
up.  Your  father  would  neither  thrust  you  into  danger, 
nor  compel  you  to  do  anything  to  which  you  had  a  rea- 
sonable aversion.  Go  and  be  a  man  about  it  in  one  way 
or  the  other  !  Either  accept  or  refuse,  but  don't  make 
these  childish  lamentations.  They  are  cowardly !  I 
should  be  ashamed  of  little  Maurice  if  he  behaved  so  ! ' 

1  And  you  will  not  speak  a  word  for  me  ! ' 

'No!     Speak  for  yourself!'  and  she  left  the  room. 

Days  passed  on,  till  she  began  to  think  that,  after  all, 
Gilbert  preferred  Calcutta,  cholera,  Thugs,  and  all,  to 
facing  his  father ;  but  at  last,  he  must  have  taken  heart 
from  his  extremity,  for  Mr.  Kendal  said,  with  less  vexa- 
tion than  she  had  anticipated,  '  So  our  plans  are  over- 
thrown. Gilbert  tells  "me  he  has  an  invincible  dislike  to 
Calcutta.     Had  you  any  such  idea  ? ' 

'  Not  till  your  cousin's  letter  arrived.  What  did  you 
say  to  him  ? ' 

1  He  was  so  much  afraid  of  vexing  me  that  I  was 
obliged  to  encourage  him  to  speak  freely,  and  I  found 
that  he  had  always  had  a  strong  distaste  to  and  dread  of 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHEE.  2*73 

India.  I  told  him  I  wished  he  had  made  me  aware  of  it 
sooner,  and  desired  to  know  what  profession  he  really 
preferred.  He  spoke  of  Oxford  and  the  Bar,  and  so  I 
suppose  it  must  be.  I  do  not  wonder  that  he  wishes  to 
follow  his  Traversham  friends,  and  as  they  are  a  good 
set,  I  hope  there  may  not  be  much  temptation.  I  see  you 
are  not  satisfied,  Albinia,  yet  your  wishes  were  one  of 
my  motives.' 

1  Thank  you— once  I  should,'  said  Albinia  ;  '  but,  Ed- 
mund, I  see  how  wrong  it  was  to  have  concealed  anything 
from  you  ; '  and  thereupon  she  informed  him  of  Gilbert's 
passion  for  Genevieve  Durant,  which  astonished  him 
greatly,  though  he  took  it  far  less  seriously  than  she  had 
expected,  and  was  not  displeased  at  having  been  kept  in 
ignorance,  and  spared  the  trouble  of  taking  notice  of  it, 
and  thus  giving  it  importance. 

*  It  will  pass  off,'  he  said.  '  She  has  too  much  sense 
and  principle  to  encourage  him,  and  if  you  can  get  her 
out  of  Bayford  for  a  few  years  he  will  be  glad  to  have  it 
forgotten.' 

1  Poor  Genevieve !  She  must  break  up  her  grand- 
mother's home  after  all ! ' 

i  It  will  be  a  great  advantage  to  her.  You  used  to 
say  that  it  would  be  most  desirable  for  her  to  see  more 
of  the  world.  Away  from  this  place  she  might  marry 
well.' 

1  Any  one's  son  but  yours,'  said  Albinia,  smiling. 

'  The  connexion  would  be  worse  here  than  anywhere 
else ;"  but  I  was  not  thinking  of  any  one  in  our  rank  of 
life.  There  are  many  superior  men  in  trade  with  whom 
she  might  be  very  happy.' 

'  Poor  child  ! '  sighed  Albinia.  '  I  cannot  feel  that  it 
is  fair  that  she  should  be  banished  for  Gilbert's  faults ; 
and  I  am  sorry  for  the  school ;  you  cannot  think  how 
much  the  tone  was  improving.' 

'  If  it  could  be  done  without  hurting  her  feelings,  I 
should  gladly  give  her  a  year  at  some  superior  finishing 
school,  which  might  either  qualify  her  for  a  governess,  or 
enable  her  to  make  this  one  more  profitable.' 

'  Oh  !  thank  you  ! '  cried  Albinia  :  '  yet  I  doubt. 
12* 


274  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

However,  her  services  would  be  quite  equivalent  in  any 
school  to  the  lessons  she  wants.  I'll  write  to  Mrs.  El- 
wood — '  and  she  was  absorbed  in  the  register-office  in 
her  brain,  when  Mr.  Kendal  continued — 

'  This  is  quite  unexpected.  I  could  not  have  supposed 
the  boy  so  foolish  !  However,  if  you  please,  I  will  speak 
to  him,  tell  him  that  I  was  unaware  of  his  folly,  and  in- 
sist on  his  giving  it  up.' 

1 1  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would.' 

Gilbert  was  called,  and  the  result  was  more  satisfac- 
tory than  Albinia  thought  that  Genevieve  deserved.  His 
frenzy  had  tended  to  wear  itself  out,  and  he  had  been  so 
dreadfully  alarmed  about  India  and  his  father,  that  in  his 
relief,  gratitude,  and  fear  of  being  sent  out,  he  was  ready 
to  promise  anything.  Before  his  father  he  could  go  into 
no  rhapsodies,  and  could  only  be  miserably  confused. 

'  Personally,'  said  Mr.  Kendal,  '  it  is  creditable  that 
you  should  be  attracted  by  such  estimable  qualities,  but 
these  are  not  the  sole  consideration.  Equality  of  station 
is  almost  as  great  a  requisite  as  these  for  producing  com- 
fort or  respectability,  and  nothing  but  your  youth  and 
ignorance  could  excuse  your  besetting  any  young  woman 
with  importunities  which  she  had  shown  to  lje  disagree- 
able to  her.' 

There  was  no  outcry  of  despair,  only  a  melancholy 
muttering.  Then  Mr.  Kendal  pronounced  his  decree  in 
terms  more  explicit  than  those  in  which  Albinia  had  ex- 
acted the  promise.  He  said  nothing  about  persecution, 
nor  was  he  unreasonable  enough  to  command  an  instant 
immolation  of  the  passion  ;  he  only  insisted  that  Gilbert 
should  pay  no  marked  attention,  and  attempt  no  unsanc- 
tioned or  underhand  communication.  Unless  he  thought 
he  had  sufficient  self-command  to  abstain,  his  father  must 
take  '  further  measures.' 

As  if  fearing  that  this  must  mean  *  Kendal  and  Ken- 
dal,' he  raised  his  head,  and  with  a  deep  sigh  undertook 
for  his  own  self-command.  Mr.  Kendal  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder  with  kind  pity,  told  him  he  was  doing  right, 
and  that  while  he  acted  openly  and  obediently,  he  should 
always  meet  with  sympathy  and  consideration. 


THE   YOUXG    STEP-MOTHEE.  2*75 

Two  difficult  points  remained — the  disposing  of  the 
young  people.  Gilbert  was  still  over-young  for  the  uni- 
versity, as  well  as  very  backward  and  ill-prepared,  and 
the  obstinate  remains  of  the  cough  made  his  father  un- 
willing to  send  him  from  home.  And  his  presence  made 
Genevieve's  absence  necessary. 

The  place  had  begun  to  loom  in  the  distance.  A  for- 
mer governess  of  Albania's,  who  would  have  done  almost 
anything  to  please  her,  had  lately  been  left  a  widow,  and 
established  herself  in  a  suburb  of  London,  with  a  small 
party  of  pupils.  She  had  just  begun  to  feel  the  need  of 
an  additional  teacher,  and  should  gladly  receive  Gene- 
vieve, provided  she  fulfilled  certain  requisites,  of  which, 
luckily,  French  pronunciation  stood  the  foremost.  The 
terms  were  left  to  Albinia,  who  could  scarcely  believe  her 
good  fortune,  and  went  in  haste  to  discuss  the  matter  with 
the  Belmarches. 

It  almost  consoled  her  for  what  she  had  been  exceed- 
ingly ashamed  to  announce,  the  change  of  purpose  with 
regard  to  Gilbert,  which  was  a  sentence  of  banishment  to 
the  object  of  his  folly.  Nothing  pained  her  more  than 
the  great  courtesy  and  kindness  of  the  two  old  ladies  to 
whom  it  was  such  a  cruel  stroke  ;  they  evidently  felt  for 
her,  and  appeared  to  catch  at  Mrs.  Elwood's  offer,  and 
wThen  Albinia  proposed  that  her  salary  should  be  a  share 
in  the  instructions  of  the  masters,  agreed  that  this  was  the 
very  thing  they  had  felt  it  their  duty  to  provide  for  her, 
if  they  had  been  able  to  bring  themselves  to  part  with 
her. 

'  So,'  said  good  Madame  Belmarche,  smiling  sadly, 
*  you  see  it  has  been  for  the  dear  child's  real  good  that 
our  weakness  has  been  conquered.' 

Genevieve  was  written  to,  and  consented  to  every- 
thing, and  when  Mr.  Kendal  took  Gilbert  away  to  visit 
an  old  friend,  his  wife  called  for  Genevieve  at  the  convent 
to  bring  her  home.  Albinia  could  not  divest  herself  of 
some  curiosity  and  excitement  in  driving  up  to  the  old- 
fashioned  red  brick  house,  with  two  tall  wings  projecting 
towards  the  street,  and  the  front  door  in  the  centre  be- 
tween them,  with  steps  down  to  it.     She  had  not  been 


276  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

without  hopes  of  a  parlour  with  a  grille,  or  at  least  that 
a  lay  sister  would  open  the  door ;  but  she  saw  nothing 
but  a  very  ordinary -looking  old  maid-servant,  and  close 
behind  her  was  Genevieve,  with  her  little  box,  quite 
ready — no  excuse  for  seeing  anything  or  anybody  else. 

If  Genevieve  were  sad  at  the  proposal  of  leaving  home 
and  going  among  strangers,  she  took  care  to  hide  all  that 
could  pain  Mrs.  Kendal,  and  her  cheerful  French  spirit 
really  enjoyed  the  prospect  of  new  scenes,  and  bounded 
with  enterprise  at  the  hope  of  a  new  life  and  fresh  tield 
of  exertion. 

'  Perhaps,  after  all,'  she  said,  smiling, '  they  may  make 
of  me  something  really  useful  and  valuable,  and  it  will 
all  be  owing  to  you,  dear  madame.  Drawing  and  Itak 
ian  !  When  I  can  teach  them,  I  shall  be  able  to  make 
grandmamma  easy  for  life.' 

Genevieve  skipped  out  of  the  carriage  and  into  her 
aunt's  arms,  as  if  alive  only  to  the  present  delight  of  be- 
ing at  home  again.  It  was  a  contrast  to  Sophy's  dolorous 
visage.  Poor  Sophy  !  she  was  living  in  a  perpetual  strife 
with  the  outward  tokens  of  sulkiness,  forcing  herself 
against  the  grain  to  make  civil  answers,  and  pretend  to 
be  interested  when  she  felt  wretched  and  morose.  That 
Gilbert,  after  so  many  ravings,  should  have  relinquished, 
from  mere  cowardice,  that  one  hope  of  earning  Genevieve 
by  honourable  exertion,  had  absolutely  lowered  her  trust 
in  the  exalting  power  of  love;  and  her  sense  of  justice 
revolted  against  the  decision  that  visited  the  follies  of  the 
guilty  upon  the  innocent.  She  was  yearning  over  her 
friend  with  all  her  heart,  pained  at  the  separation,  and 
longing  fervently  to  make  some  demonstration,  but  the 
greater  her  wish,  the  worse  was  her  reserve.  She  spent 
all  her  money  upon  a  beautiful  book  as  a  parting  gift,  and 
kept  it  beside  her,  missing  occasion  after  occasion  of  pre- 
senting it  and  falling  at  each  into  a  perfect  agony  behind 
that  impalpable,  yet  impassable,  barrier  of  embarrass- 
ment. 

It  was  not  till  the  very  last  evening,  when  Genevieve 
had  actually  wished  her  good-bye,  and  left  the  house,  that 
she  grew  desperate.    She  hastily  put  on  bonnet  and  cloak, 


THE    YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  277 

and  pursued  Genevieve  up  the  street,  overtaking  her  at 
last,  and  causing  her  to  look  round  close  to  her  own  door. 

*  My  dear  Miss  Sophy,'  cried  Genevieve,  '  what  is  the 
matter  ?     You  are  quite  overcome.' 

1  This  book — '  said  Sophy — it  was  all  she  could  say. 

'  Love — yes,'  said  Genevieve.     '  Admiration — no. 

'  You  shall  not  say  that,'  cried  Sophy.  *  I  have  found 
wrhat  is  really  dignified  and  disinterested,  and  you  must 
let  me  admire  you,  Jenny,  it  makes  me  comfortable.' 

Genevieve  smiled.  '  I  would  not  commit  an  egoism,' 
she  said  ;  '  but  if  the  sense  of  admiration  do  you  good,  I 
wish  it  had  a  worthier  cause.' 

'  There's  no  one  to  admire  but  you,'  said  Sophy.  '  I 
think  it  very  unfair  to  send  you  away,  and  though  it  is 
nobody's  fault,  I  hate  good  sense  and  the  way  of  the 
world ! ' 

'  Oh  !  do  not  talk  so.  I  am  only  overwhelmed  with 
wronder  at  the  goodness  I  have  experienced.  If  it  had 
happened  with  any  other  family,  oh !  how  differently  I 
should  have  been  judged  !  Oh  !  when  I  think  of  Mrs. 
Kendal,  I  am  ready  to  weep  with  gratitude  ! ' 

'  Yes,  mamma  is  mamma,  and  not  like  any  one  else  ; 
but  even  she  is  obliged  to  be  rational,  and  do  the  injus- 
tice, whatever  she  feels,'  said  Sophy. 

'  Oh  !  not  injustice — kindness  !  I  shall  be  able  to 
earn  more  for  grandmamma  ! ' 

'  It  is  injustice  ! '  said  Sophy  ;  '  not  hers,  perhaps,  but 
of  the  world  !  It  makes  me  so  angry,  to  think  that  you 
— you  should  never  do  anything  but  wear  yourself  out  in 
drudging  over  tiresome  little  children — ' 

'  Little  children  are  my  brothers  and  sisters,  as  I 
never  had  any,'  said  Genevieve.  *  Oh  !  I  always  loved 
them,  they  make  a  home  wherever  they  are.  I  am  thank- 
ful that  my  vocation  is  among  them.' 

In  dread  of  a  token  from  Gilbert,  Genevieve  would 
not  notice  it,  but  pursued,  '  You  must  come  in  and  rest 
— you  must  have  my  aunt's  salts.' 

'  No — no — '  said  Sophy,  '  not  there — '  as  Genevieve 
would  have  taken  her  to  the  little  parlour ;  but  opening 


278  THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER. 

the  door  of  the  school-room,  she  sank  breathless  into  a 
sitting  position  on  the  carpetless  boards. 

Genevieve  shut  the  door,  and  kneeling  down,  found 
Sophy's  arms  thrown  round  her,  pressing  her  almost  to 
strangulation. 

'  Oh  !  I  wanted  to  do  it — I  never  could.  Won't  you 
have  the  book,  Genevieve  ?  It  is  my  keepsake — only  I 
could  not  give  it  because — ' 

'Is  it  your  keepsake,  indeed,  dear  Miss  Sophy  V  said 
Genevieve.  '  Oh  !  if  it  is  yours — how  I  shall  value  it — 
but  it  is  too  beautiful — ' 

'  Nothing  is  too  beautiful  for  you,  Genevieve,'  said 
Sophy,  fervently. 

1  And  it  is  your  gift !  But  I  am  frightened — it  must 
have  cost — ! '  began  Genevieve,  still  a  little  on  her 
guard.  '  Dear,  dear  Miss  Sophy,  forgive  me  if  I  do  seem 
ungrateful,  but  indeed  I  ought  to  ask — if — if  it  is  all  your 
own  gift  ? ' 

*  Mine  ?  yes  ! '  said  Sophy,  on  the  borders  of  offence. 
'  I  know  what  you  mean,  Genevieve,  but  you  may  trust 
me.     I  would  not  take  you  in.' 

Genevieve  was  blushing  intensely,  but  taking  courage 
she  bestowed  a  shower  of  ardent  embraces  and  expres- 
sions of  gratitude,  mingled  with  excuses  for  her  precau- 
tion. '  Oh !  it  was  so  very  kind  in  Miss  Sophy,'  she 
said ;  '  it  would  be  such  a  comfort  to  remember ;  she 
had  feared  she  too  was  angry  with  her.' 

'  Angry  !  oh,  no  ! '  cried  Sophy,  her  heart  quite  un- 
locked ;  '  but  the  more  I  loved  and  admired,  the  more  I 
could  not  speak  ! ' 

'  And  if  they  drive  you  to  be  a  governess?  If  you 
had  a  situation  like  what  we  read  of? ' 

1  Perhaps  I  shall  not,'  said  Genevieve,  laughing. 
1  Every  one  has  been  so  good  to  me  hitherto  !  And 
then  I  am  not  reduced  from  anything  grander.  I  shall 
always  have  the  children,  you  know.' 

'  How  I  should  hate  them  ! '  quoth  Sophy. 

1  They  are  my  pleasure.  Besides  I  have  always 
thought  it  a  blessing  that  my  business  in  life,  though  so 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  279 

humble,  should  be  what  may  do  direct  good.  If  only  I 
do  not  set  them  a  bad  example,  or  teach  them  any  harm.' 

1  Not   much   danger   of  that,'    said   Sophy,   smiling. 

'  Well,  I  can't  believe  it  will  be  your  lot  all  your  life. 

You  will  find  some  one  who  will  know  how  to  love  you.' 

'  No,'  said  Genevieve,  '  I  am  not  in  a  position  for  mar- 
riage— grandmamma  has  often  told  me  so  !  •' 

'  Things  sometimes  happen,'  pursued  Sophy.  '  Mam- 
ma said  if  Gilbert  had  been  older,  or  even  if — if  he  had 
been  in  earnest  and  steady  enough  to  work  for  you  in 
India,  then  it  might — And  surely  if  Gilbert  could  care 
for  you — people  higher  and  deeper  than  he  would  like 
you  better  still.' 

*  Hush,'  said  Genevieve  ;  e  they  would  only  see  the  ob- 
jections more  strongly.  No,  do  not  put  these  things  in 
my  head.  I  know  that  unless  a  teacher  hold  her  business 
as  her  mission,  and  put  all  other  schemes  out  of  her  mind, 
she  will  work  with  an  absent,  distracted,  half-hearted  at- 
tention, and  fail  of  the  task  that  the  good  God  has  com- 
mitted to  her.' 

'  Then  you  would  never  even  wish — ' 

'  It  would  be  seeking  pomps  and  vanities  to  wish,'  said 
Genevieve ;  '  a  school-room  is  a  good  safe  cloister,  probably 
less  dull  than  the  convent.  If  I  wish  at  all,  it  will  be 
that  I  may  be  well  shut  up  there,  for  I  know  that  in  spite 
of  myself  my  manners  are  different  from  your  English 
ones.  I  cannot  make  them  otherwise,  and  that  amuses 
people  ;  and  I  cannot  help  liking  to  please,  and  so  I  be- 
come excited.  I  enjoy  society  so  much  that  it  is  not  safe 
for  me  I  So  don't  be  sorry,  dear  Sophy,  it  is  a  fit  penance 
for  the  vanity  that  elated  me  too  much  that  evening  at 
Fairmead ! ' 

Mademoiselle  Belmarche  was  here  attracted  by  the 
voices.  Sophy  started  up  from  the  ground,  made  some  un- 
intelligible excuse,  and  while  Mademoiselle  was  confounded 
with  admiration  at  the  sight  of  the  book,  inflicted  another 
boa-constrictor  embrace,  and  hurried  away. 


280  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 


CHAPTEK  XVII. 


Planets  hostile  to  the  tender  passion  must  have  been 
in  the  ascendant,  for  the  result  of  Captain  Ferrars's  pursuit 
of  his  brother  to  Italy  was  the  wholesome  certainty  that 
his  own  slender  portion  was  all  he  had  to  reckon  upon. 
Before  returning  to  Canada,  he  came  to  Bayford  to  pour 
out  his  troubles  to  his  cousin,  and  to  induce  her,  if  he 
could  induce  no  one  else,  to  advise  his  immediate  marriage. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  really  engaged,  and  his 
affection  had  not  only  stood  three  months'  absence,  but 
had  so  much  elevated  his  shatter-brained  though  frank  and 
honest  temperament,  that  Albinia  conceived  a  high  opinion 
of  '  Emily,'  and  did  her  best  to  persuade  him  to  be  pa- 
tient, and  wait  for  promotion. 

Sophy  likewise  approved  of  him  this  time,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  was  so  opposite  a  specimen  of  the  genus  lover 
from  that  presented  by  her  brother.  Gilbert  had  not  been 
able  to  help  enjoying  himself  while  from  home,  but  his 
spirits  sank  on  his  return  ;  he  lay  about  on  the  grass  in 
doleful  dejection,  studied  little  but  L.  E.  L.,  lost  appetite, 
and  reproachfully  fondled  his  cough  ;  but  Albinia  was  now 
more  compassionate  than  Sophy,  whom  she  was  obliged  to 
rebuke  for  an  unsisterly  disregard  toward  his  woes. 

'  I  can't  help  it,'  said  Sophy  ;  1 1  can't  believe  in  him 
now ! ' 

*  Yes,  you  ought  to  believe  that  he  is  really  unhappy, 
and  be  more  gentle  and  considerate  with  him.' 

'  If  it  had  been  earnest,  he  would  have  sacrificed  him- 
self instead  of  Genevieve.' 

*  Ah  !  Sophy,  some  day  you  will  learn  to  make  excuses 
for  other  people,  and  not  be  so  intolerant.' 

*  I  never  make  excuses.' 

*  Except  for  Maurice,'  said  Albinia.  '  If  you  viewed 
other  people  as  you  do  him,  your  judgments  would  be 
gentler.' 

Sophy's  conscientiousness,  like  her  romance,  was  hard, 
high,  and  strict ;  but  while  she  had  as  little  mercy  on 
herself  as  on  others,  and  while  there  were  some  soft  spots 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE.  281 

in  her  adamantine  judgment,  there  was  hope  that  these 
would  spread,  and,  without  lowering  her  tone,  make  her 
more  merciful. 

She  corresponded  constantly  with  Genevieve,  who 
seemed  very  happily  placed ;  Mrs.  Elwood  was  delighted 
with  her,  and  she  with  Mrs.  Elwood ;  and  her  lively  let- 
ters showed  no  signs  of  pining  for  home.  Sophy  felt  as 
if  it  were  a  duty  to  her  friend,  to  do  what  in  her  lay  to 
prevent  the  two  old  ladies  from  being  dull,  and  spent  an 
hour  with  them  every  week,  not  herself  contributing  much 
to  their  amusement,  but  pleasing  them  by  the  attention, 
and  hearing  much  that  was  very  curious  of  their  old-world 
recollections. 

Ever  since  that  unlucky  penny-club-day,  when  she 
had  declared  that  she  hated  poor  people,  she  had  been  let 
alone  on  that  subject ;  and  though  principle  had  made  her 
use  her  needle  in  their  behalf,  shyness  and  reserve  had 
kept  her  back  from  all  intercourse  with  them ;  but  in  her 
wish  to  compensate  for  Genevieve's  absence,  she  volun- 
teered to  take  charge  of  her  vacant  Sunday-school  class, 
and  obtained  leave  to  have  the  girls  at  home  on  the  after- 
noons for  an  hour  and  a  half.  This  was  enough  for  one 
who  worked  as  she  did,  making  a  conscience  of  every 
word,  and  toiling  to  prepare  her  lessons,  writing  out  her 
questions  beforehand,  and  begging  for  advice  upon  them. 

'  My  dear,'  said  Albinia,  '  you  must  alter  this — you 
see  this  question  does  not  grow  out  of  the  last  answer.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Sophy,  '  that  must  have  been  what  puzzled 
them  last  Sunday  :  they  want  connexion.' 

*  Nothing  like  logic  to  teach  one  to  be  simple,'  said 
Albinia. 

1 1  can't  see  the  use  of  all  this  trouble,'  put  in  Lucy. 
'Why  can't  you  ask  them  just  what  comes  into  your 
head,  as  I  always  do  1 ' 

'  Suppose  mistakes  came  into  my  head.' 

'  Oh  !  they  would  not  find  it  out  if  they  did  !  I  de- 
clare ! — what's  this — Persian  ?  Are  you  going  to  teach 
them  Persian  1 ' 

1  No  ;  it  is  Greek.     You  see  it  is  a  piece  of  a  Psalm, 


282  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEE. 

a  quotation  rather  different  in  the  New  Testament.  I 
wrote  it  down  to  ask  papa  what  it  is  in  Hebrew.' 

'  By-the-bye,  Sophy/  continued  Lucy,  '  how  could  you 
let  Susan  Price  come  to  church  with  lace  sleeves — abso- 
lute lace  sleeves ! ' 

■  Had  she  %  ' 

1  There — you  never  see  anything  !  Mamma,  would 
not  it  be  more  sensible  to  keep  their  dress  in  order,  than 
to  go  poking  into  Hebrew,  which  can't  be  of  use  to  any 
one  1 ' 

There  was  more  reason  than  might  appear  in  what 
Lucy  said  :  the  girls  of  her  class  were  more  orderly,  and 
fonder  of  her  than  Sophy's  of  the  grave  young  lady  whose 
earnestness  oppressed  them,  and  whose  shyness  looked 
dislike  and  pride.  As  to  finding  fault  with  their  dress, 
she  privately  told  Albinia  that  she  could  not  commit  such 
a  discourtesy,  and  was  answered  that  no  one  but  Mrs. 
Dusautoy  need  interfere. 

'  I  will  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Dusautoy  what  she  wishes,' 
said  Albinia.  '  I  should  be  glad  if  she  would  modify 
Lucy's  sumptuary  laws.  To  fall  foul  of  every  trifle  only 
makes  the  girls  think  of  their  dress.' 

Albinia  found  Mrs.  Dusautoy  busied  in  writing  notes 
on  mourning  paper. 

'  Here  is  a  note  I  had  written  to  you,'  she  said*  { I 
am  sending  over  to  Hadminster  to  see  if  any  of  the 
curates  can  take  the  services  to-morrow.1 

Albinia  looked  at  the  note  while  Mrs.  Dusautoy  wrote 
on  hurriedly.  She  read  that  there  could  be  no  daily  ser- 
vices at  present,  the  Vicar  having  been  summoned  to 
Paris  by  the  sudden  death  of  Mrs.  Cavendish  Dusautoy. 
As  the  image  of  a  well-endowed  widow,  always  trying  to 
force  her  way  into  higher  society,  arose  before  Albinia, 
she  could  hardly  wait  till  the  letter  was  despatched,  tq 
break  out  in  amazement, 

'  Was  she  a  relation  of  yours  ?  Even  the  name  never 
made  me  think  of  it ! ' 

'  It  is  a  pity  she  cannot  have  the  gratification  of  hear- 
ing it,  poor  woman,'  said  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  '  but  it  is  a  fact 
that  she  did  poor  George  Dusautoy  the  honour  to  marry 
him.' 


THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER,  283 

'  Mr.  Dusautoy's  brother  1 ' 

*  Ay — he  was  a  young  surgeon,  just  set  up  in  practice, 
exactly  like  John — nay,  some  people  thought  him  still 
finer-looking.  She  was  a  Miss  Greenaway  Cavendish,  a 
stockbroker's  heiress  of  a  certain  age.' 

'  Oh  ! '  expressively  cried  Albinia. 

'  You  may  say  so,'  returned  Mrs.  Dusautoy.  '  She 
made  him  put  away  his  profession,  and  set  up  for  taste 
and  elegant  idleness.' 

'  And  he  submitted  ? ' 

1  There  was  a  great  deal  of  the  meek  giant  in  him, 
and  he  believed  implicitly  in  the  honour  she  had  done 
him.  It  would  have  been  very  touching,  if  it  had  not 
been  so  provoking,  to  see  how  patiently  and  humbly  that 
fine  young  man  gave  up  all  that  would  have  made  him 
happy,  to  bend  to  her  caprices  and  pretensions.' 

'  Did  you  ever  see  them  together  1 ' 

1  No,  I  never  saw  her  at  all,  and  him  only  once.  I 
never  knew  John  really  savage  but  once,  and  that  was  at 
her  not  letting  him  come  to  our  wedding ;  but  she  did 
give  him  leave  of  absence  for  one  fortnight,  when  we 
were  at  Lauriston.  How  happy  the  brothers  were  !  It 
did  one  good  to  hear  their  great  voices  about  the  house ; 
and  they  were  like  boys  on  a  stolen  frolic,  when  John 
took  him  to  prescribe  for  some  of  our  poor  people.  He 
used  to  talk  of  bringing  us  his  little  son — the  one  pleas- 
ure of  his  life — but  he  never  was  allowed.  Oh,  how  I 
used  to  long  to  stir  up  a  mutiny  ! '  cried  Mrs.  Dusautoy, 
quite  unknowing  that  she  ruled  her  own  lion  with  a  leash 
of  silk.  '  If  she  had  appreciated  him,  it  would  have  been 
bearable ;  but  to  her  he  was  no  more  than  the  handsome 
young  doctor,  whom  she  had  made  a  gentleman,  and  not 
a  very  good  piece  of  work  of  it  either  !  Little  she  recked 
of  the  great  loving  heart  that  had  thrown  itself  away  on 
her,  and  the  patience  that  bore  with  her ;  and  she  tried 
to  hinder  all  the  liberal  bountiful  actions  that  were  all  he 
cared  to  do  with  his  means  !  I  wish  the  boy  may  re- 
member him  ! ' 

'  How  long  has  he  been  dead  %  ' 

*  These  ten  years.     He  was  drowned  in  a  lake  storm 


284  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

in  Switzerland — people  clung  to  him,  and  he  could  not 
swim.  It  was  John's  one  great  grief — he  cannot  mention 
him  even  now.  And  really,'  she  added,  smiling,  '  I  do 
believe  he  has  brought  himself  to  fancy  it  was  a  very 
happy  marriage.  She  has  always  been  very  civil ;  but 
she  has  been  chiefly  abroad,  and  never  would  take  his 
advice  about  sending  her  boy  to  school.' 

'  What  becomes  of  him  now  %  ' 

*  He  is  our  charge.  She  was  on  the  way  home  from 
Italy,  when  she  was  taken  ill  at  Paris,  and  died  at  the 
end  of  the  week.' 

<  How  old  is  he  ?  ' 

'  About  nineteen,  I  fancy.  He  must  have  had  an  odd 
sort  of  education  ;  but  if  he  is  a  nice  lad,  it  will  be  a  great 
pleasure  to  John  to  have  something  young  about  the 
house.' 

'  I  was  thinking  that  Mr.  Dusautoy  hardly  wanted 
more  cares.' 

'  So  have  I,'  said  her  friend,  smiling ;  '  and  I  have 
been  laying  a  plot  against  him.  You  see,  he  is  as  strong 
as  a  lion,  and  never  yet  was  too  tired  to  sleep  ;  but  it  is 
rather  a  tempting  of  Providence  to  keep  3,589  people 
and  fourteen  services  in  a  week  resting  upon  one  man  ! ' 

'  Exactly  what  his  churchwarden  has  preached  to 
him.' 

'  Moreover,  he  cannot  be  in  two  places  at  once,  let 
alone  half-a-dozen.  Now,  my  Lancashire  people  have 
written  in  quest  of  a  title  for  holy  orders  for  a  young 
man  who  has  just  gone  through  Cambridge  with  great 
credit,  and  it  strikes  me  that  he  might  at  once  help  John, 
and  cram  Master  Algernon.' 

'  And  Gilbert ! '  cried  Albinia.  '  Oh,  if  you  will 
import  a  tutor  for  Gilbert,  we  shall  be  for  ever  beholden 
to  you ! ' 

'  I  had  thought  of  him.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is 
much  better  taught  than  Algernon ;  but  I  am  not  afraid 
of  this  poor  fellow  bringing  home  bad  habits,  and  they 
will  be  good  companions.  I  reckon  upon  you  and  Mr. 
Kendal  as  great  auxiliaries,  and  I  don't  think  John  will 
be  able  to  withstand  our  united  forces.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER.  285 

On  the  way  home,  on  emerging  from  the  alley,  Al- 
binia  encountered  Gilbert,  just  parting  with  another 
youth,  who  walked  off  quickly  on  the  Tremblam  road, 
while  she  inquired  who  it  was. 

'  That  ? '  said  Gilbert ;  '  oh  !  that  was  young  Tritton. 
He  has  been  away  learning  farming  in  Scotland.  We 
speak  when  we  meet,  for  old  acquaintance  sake  and 
that: 

The  Bay  ford  mind  was  diverted  from  the  romance  of 
Genevieve  by  the  enormous  fortune  of  the  vicar's  nephew, 
whose  capital  was  in  their  mouths  and  imaginations 
swelled  into  his  yearly  income.  Swarms  of  cards  of 
inquiry  were  left  at  the  vicarage ;  and  Mrs.  Meadows 
and  Lucy  enjoyed  the  reflected  dignity  of  being  able  to 
say  that  Mrs.  Kendal  was  continually  there.  And  so  she 
was,  for  Mrs.  Dusautoy  was  drooping,  though  more  in 
body  than  visibly  in  spirit,  and  needed  both  companion- 
ship and  assistance  in  supporting  the  charge  left  by  her 
absent  Atlas. 

He  was  not  gone  a  moment  longer  than  necessary, 
and  took  her  by  surprise  at  last,  while  Albinia  and  Sophy 
were  sitting  on  the  lawn  with  her,  when  she  welcomed 
the  nephew  and  the  Vicar,  holding  out  a  hand  to  each,  and 
thanked  them  for  taking  care  of '  Fanny.'  '  Here,  Alger- 
non,' he  continued, '  here  are  two  of  our  best  friends,  Mrs. 
Kendal  and  Miss  Sophy.' 

There  was  a  stiff  bow  from  a  stiff  altitude.  The  youth 
was  on  the  gigantic  Dusautoy  scale,  looking  taller  even 
than  his  uncle,  from  his  manner  of  holding  himself  with 
his  chin  somewhat  elevated.  He  had  a  good  ruddy  sun- 
burnt complexion,  shining  brown  hair,  and  regular  fea- 
tures ;  and  Albinia  could  respond  heartily  to  the  good 
Vicar's  exclamation,  as  he  followed  her  down  to  the  gate 
for  the  sake  of  saying, 

1  Well-grown  lad,  isn't  that  ?  And  a  very  good- 
hearted  fellow,  too,  poor  boy — the  very  picture  of  his 
dear  father.     Well,  and  how  has  Fanny  been  ? ' 

He  stayed  to  be  reassured  that  his  return  was  all 
his  Fanny  wanted,  and  then  hurried  back  to  her,  while 
Albinia  and  Sophy  pursued  their  way  down  the  hill. 


286  THE  YOUNG  STEP-MOTHER. 

1  News  for  grandmamma.  We  must  give  her  a  par- 
ticular description  of  the  hero.' 

'  How  ugly  he  thought  me  !  '  said  Sophy,  quaintly. 

1  My  dear,  I  believe  that  is  the  first  thing  you  think 
of  when  you  meet  a  stranger  ! ' 

'  I  saw  it  this  time,'  returned  Sophy  '  His  chin  went 
up  in  the  air  at  once.  He  set  me  down  for  Mrs.  Kendal, 
and  you  for  Miss  Sophy.' 

'  Nonsense,'  said  Albinia  for  the  inveterate  youthful- 
ness  of  her  bright  complexion  and  sunny  hair  was  almost 
a  sore  subject  with  her.  '  Your  always  fancying  that 
every  one  is  disgusted  with  you,  is  as  silly  as  if  you 
imagined  yourself  transcendently  beautiful.  It  is  mere 
self-occupation,  and  helps  to  make  you  blunt  and  shy.' 

1  Mamma,'  said  Sophy,  '  tell  me  one  thing.  Did  you 
ever  think  yourself  pretty  ?  ' 

'  I  have  thought  myself  looking  so,  under  favourable 
circumstances,  but  that's  all.  You  are  as  far  from  ugli- 
ness as  I  am,  and  have  as  little  need  to  think  of  it.  As 
far  as  features  go,  there's  the  making  of  a  much  hand- 
somer woman  in  you  than  in  me.' 

Sophy  laughed.  A  certain  yearning  for  personal 
beauty  was  a  curious  part  of  her  character,  and  she  would 
have  been  ashamed  to  own  the  pleasure  those  few  words 
had  given  her,  or  how  much  serenity  and  forbearance 
they  were  worth ;  and  her  good-humour  was  put  to  the 
proof  that  evening,  for  grandmamma  had  a  tea-party,  bent 
on  extracting  the  full  description  of  the  great  Algernon 
Greenaway  Cavendish  Dusautoy,  Esquire.  Lucy's  first 
sight  was  less  at  her  ease.  Elizabeth  Osborn,  with  whom 
she  kept  up  a  fitful  intimacy,  summoned  her  mysteriously 
into  her  garden,  to  show  her  a  peep-hole  through  a  little 
dusty  window  in  the  tool-house,  whence  could  be  descried 
the  vicarage  garden,  and  Mr.  Cavendish  Dusautoy,  as, 
with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
'  Stately  stept  he  east  the  to1,  and  stately  stept  he  west.' 

Lucy  was  so  much  amused,  that  she  could  not  help 
reporting  it  at  home,  where  Gilbert  forgot  his  sorrows, 
in  building  up  a  mischievous  romance  in  honour  of  the 
hole  in  the  '  sweet  and  lovely  wall.' 


THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHEB.  287 

But  the  parents'  feud  did  not  seem  likely  to  hold  out. 
A  hundred  thousand  pounds  on  one  side  of  the  wall,  and 
three  single  daughters  on  the  other,  Mrs.  Osborn  was  not 
the  woman  to  trust  to  the  '  wall's  hole  ; '  and  so  Mr.  Du- 
sautoy's  enemy  laid  down  her  colours ;  and  he  was  too 
kind-hearted  to  trace  her  sudden  politeness  to  the  source. 

Mr.  Dusautoy  acceded  to  the  scheme  devised  by  his 
wife,  and  measures  were  at  once  taken  for  engaging  the 
curate.  When  Albinia  went  to  talk  the  matter  over  at 
the  parsonage,  Lucy  accompanied  her ;  but  the  object  of 
her  curiosity  was  not  in  the  room ;  and  when  she  had 
heard  that  he  was  fond  of  drawing,  and  that  his  horses 
were  to  be  kept  at  the  King's  Head  stables,  the  conversa- 
tion drifted  away,  and  she  grew  restless,  and  begged  Mrs. 
Dusautoy  to  allow  her  to  replenish  the  faded  bouquets 
on  the  table.  No  sooner  was  she  in  the  garden,  than 
Mrs.  Dusautoy  put  on  an  arch  look,  and  lowering  her 
voice,  said, 

'  Oh  !  it  is  such  fun  !  He  does  despise  us  so  im- 
mensely.' 

'  Despise — you  ? ' 

*  He  is  a  good  boy,  faithful  to  his  training.  Now  his 
poor  mother's  axioms  were,  that  the  English  are  vulgar, 
country  English  more  vulgar,  Fanny  Dusautoy  the  most 
vulgar  !  I  wish  we  always  as  heartily  accepted  what  we 
are  taught.' 

'  He  must  be  intolerable.' 

■  No,  he  is  very  condescending  and  patronizing  to  the 
savages.  He  really  is  fond  of  his  uncle  ;  and  John  is  so 
much  hurt  if  I  notice  his  peculiarities,  that  I  have  been 
dying  to  have  my  laugh  out.' 

1  Can  Mr.  Dusautoy  bear  with  pretension  ? ' 

1  It  is  not  pretension,  only  calm  faith  in  the  lessons  of 
his  youth.  Look,'  she  added,  becoming  less  personal  at 
Lucy's  re-entrance,  and  pointing  to  a  small,  highly-var- 
nished oil-painting;  of  a  red  terra  cotta  vase,  holding  a 
rose,  a  rhododendron  before  it,  and  half  a  water-melon 
grinning  behind,  newly  severed  by  a  knife. 

4  Is  that  what  people  bring  home  from  Italy  now-a- 
days  ? '  said  Albinia. 


288  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

'  That  is  an  original  production.' 

'  Did  Mr.  Cavendish  Dusautoy  do  that  ? '  cried  Lucy. 

'  Genre  is  his  style,'  was  the  reply.  '  His  mother  was 
resolved  he  should  be  an  amateur,  and  I  give  his  master 
great  credit.' 

'  Especially  for  that  not  being  a  Madonna,'  said  Al- 
binia.  '  I  congratulate  you  on  his  having  so  safe  an 
amusement.' 

'  Yes  ;  it  disposes  of  him  and  of  the  spare  room.  He 
cannot  exist  without  an  atelier.7 

Just  then  the  Vicar  entered. 

'  Ah !  Algernon's  picture,'  began  he,  who  had  never 
been  known  to  look  at  one,  except  the  fat  cattle  in  the 
Illustrated  Neivs.  '  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  Has  he 
not  made  a  good  hand  of  the  pitcher  ? ' 

Albinia  gratified  him  by  owning  that  the  pitcher  was 
round  ;  and  Lucy  was  in  perfect  rapture  at  the  *  dear  lit- 
tle spots  '  in  the  rhododendron. 

'  A  poor  way  of  spending  a  lad's  time,'  said  the  uncle ; 
'  but  it  is  better  than  nothing ;  and  I  call  the  knife  very 
good :  I  declare  you  might  take  it  up,'  and  he  squeezed 
up  his  eyes  to  enhance  the  illusion. 

A  slow  and  wide  opening  of  the  door  admitted  the 
lofty  presence  of  Algernon  Cavendish  Dusautoy,  with 
another  small  picture  in  his  hand.  Becoming  aware  of 
the  visitors,  he  saluted  them  with  a  dignified  movement 
of  his  head,  and  erecting  his  chin,  gazed  at  them  over  it. 

'  So  you  have  brought  us  another  picture,  Algernon,' 
said  his  uncle.  '  Mrs.  Kendal  has  just  been  admiring 
your  red  jar.' 

'  Have  you  a  taste  for  art  1 '  demanded  Mr.  Cavendish 
Dusautoy,  turning  to  her  with  magnificent  suavity. 

'  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  drawing.' 

'  Genre  is  my  style,  he  pursued,  almost  overthrowing 
her  gravity  by  the  original  of  his  aunt's  imitation.  '  I 
took  lessons  of  old  Barbouille — excellent  master.  Truth 
and  nature,  those  were  his  maxims ;  and  from  the  mo- 
ment I  heard  them,  I  said,  "  This  is  my  man."  We  used 
positively  to  live  in  the  Borghese.  There  ! '  as  he  walked 
backwards,  after  adjusting  his  production  in  the  best 
light. 


THE   YOUXG   STEP- MOTHER.  289 

1  A  snipe,'  said  Albinia. 

'  A  snipe  that  I'killecl  in  the  Pontine  marshes.' 

'  There  is  very  good  shooting  about  Anxur,'  said 
Albinia. 

'  You  have  been  at  Rome  ? '  He  permitted  himself  a 
little  animation  at  discovering  any  one  within  the  pale  of 
civilization. 

'  For  one  fortnight  in  the  course  of  a  galloping  tour 
with  my  two  brothers,'  said  Albinia.  '  All  the  Continent 
in  one  long  vacation  ! ' 

1  That  was  much  to  be  regretted.  It  is  my  maxim  to 
go  through  every  museum  thoroughly.' 

'  I  can't  regret,'  said  Albinia.  '  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  give  up  my  bright  indistinct  haze  of  glorious 
memories,  though  1  was  too  young  to  appreciate  all  I 
saw.' 

1  For  my  part,  I  have  grown  up  among  works  of  art. 
My  whole  existence  has  been  moulded  on  them,  and  I 
feel  an  inexpressible  void  without  them.  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  introduce  you  into  my  atelier,  and  show  you 
my  notes  on  the  various  Musees.  I  preserved  them  merely 
as  a  trifling  memorial ;  but  many  connoisseurs  have  told 
me  that  I  ought  to  print  them  as  a  Catalogue  raisonnee 
for  private  circulation,  of  course.  I  should  be  sorry  to 
interfere  with  Murray,  but  on  the  whole  I  decided  other- 
wise :  I  should  be  so  much  bored  with  applications.' 

Mrs.  Dusautoy's  wicked  glance  had  so  nearly  demol- 
ished the  restraint  on  her  friend's  dimples,  that  she  turned 
her  back  on  her,  and  commended  the  finish  of  a  solitary 
downy  feather  that  lay  detached  beside  the  bird. 

'  My  maxim  is  truth  to  nature,  at  any  cost  of  pains,' 
said  the  youth,  not  exactly  gratified,  for  homage  was  his 
native  element,  but  graciously  proceeding  to  point  out 
the  merits  of  the  composition. 

Albinia's  composure  could  endure  no  more,  and  she 
took  her  leave,  Mr.  Dusautoy  coming  down  the  hill  with 
her  to  repeat,  and  this  time  somewhat  wistfully, 

'A  fine  lad,  is  he  not,  poor  fellow  ? ' 

With  perfect  sincerity,  she  could  praise  his  good  looks. 

*  He  has  had  a  quantity  of  sad  stuff  thrust  on  him  by 
13 


290  THE   YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

the  people  who  have  been  about  his  poor  mother,'  said 
Mr.  Dusautoy.  '  She  could  never  bear  to  part  with  him, 
and  no  wonder,  poor  thing  ;  and  she  must  have  let  a  very- 
odd  sort  of  people  get  about  her  abroad — they've  flat- 
tered that  poor  lad  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  you  see ;  but 
he's  a  very  good  boy  for  all  that,  very  warm-hearted.' 

'  He  must  be  very  amiable  for  his  mother  to  have  been 
able  to  manage  him  all  this  while.' 

'  Just  what  I  say!'  cried  the  Vicar,  his  honest  face 
clearing.  '  Many  youths  would  have  run  into  all  that  is 
bad,  brought  up  in  that  way ;  but  only  consider  what 
disadvantages  he  has  had  !  When  we  get  him  to  see  his 
real  standing  a  little  better — I  say,  could  not  you  let  us 
have  your  young  people  to  come  up  this  evening,  have  a 
little  music,  and  make  it  lively  ?  I  suppose  Fanny  and  I 
are  growing  old,  though  I  never  thought  so  before.  "Will 
you  come,  Lucy,  there's  a  good  girl,  and  bring  your 
mother  and  sister  ?     The  lads  must  be  capital  friends.' 

Lucy  promised  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  the  Vicar 
strode  off,  saying  he  should  depend  on  the  three. 

Gilbert '  supposed  he  was  in  for  it,'  but '  did  not  see 
the  use  of  it ; '  he  was  sick,of  the  name  of  '  that  polysyl- 
lable,' and  '  should  see  enough  of  him  when  Mr.  Hope 
came,  worse  luck.' 

The  result  of  the  evening  was,  that  Lucy  was  enrap- 
tured at  the  discovery  that  this  most  accomplished  hero 
sang  Italian  songs  to  the  loveliest  guitar  in  the  world, 
and  was  very  much  offended  with  Sophy  for  wishing  to 
know  whether  mamma  really  thought  him  so  very 
clever. 

Immediately  after  the  Ordination  arrived  Mr.  Hope,  a 
very  youthful,  small,  and  delicate-looking  man,  whom 
Mr.  Dusautoy  could  have  lifted  as  easily  as  his  own 
Fanny,  with  short  sight,  timid  nature,  scholarly  habits, 
weak  nerves,  and  an  inaudible  voice. 

Of  great  intellect,  having  read  deeply,  and  reading 
still  more  deeply,  he  had  the  utmost  dread  of  ladies,  and 
not  even  his  countrywoman,  Mrs.  Dusautoy,  could  draw 
him  out.  He  threw  his  whole  soul  into  the  work,  win- 
ning the  hearts  of  the  infant-school  and  the  old  women, 


THE   YOUNG    STEP-MOTHER.  291 

but  discomfiting  the  congregation  by  the  weakness  of  his 
voice,  and  the  length  and  depth  of  his  sermons.  There 
was  one  in  especial  which  very  few  heard,  and  no  one 
entered  into  except  Sophy,  who  held  an  hour's  argument 
over  it  with  her  father,  till  they  arrived  at  such  lengthy 
names  of  heresies,  that  poor  grandmamma  asked  if  it 
were  right  to  talk  Persian  on  a  Sunday  evening. 

He  conscientiously  tutored  his  two  pupils,  but  there 
was  no  common  ground  between  him  and  them.  Ex- 
cepting his  extra  intellect,  there  was  no  boyhood  in  him. 
A  town-bred  scholar,  a  straight  constitutional  upon  a 
clean  road  was  his  wild3st  dream  of  exercise ;  he  had 
never  mounted  a  horse,  did  not  know  a  chicken  from  a 
partridge,  except  on  the  table,  was  too  short-sighted  for 
pictures,  and  esteemed  no  music  except  Gregorians. 

The  two  youths  were  far  more  alive  to  his  deficiencies 
than  to  his  endowments ;  Algernon  contemned  him  for 
bein<?  a  bookseller's  son,  with  nothing  to  live  on  but  his 
fellowship  and  curacy,  and  Gilbert  looked  down  on  his 
ignorance  of  every  matter  of  common  life  and  excessive 
bashfulness.  Mr.  Dusautoy  would  have  had  less  satis- 
faction in  the  growing  intimacy  between  the  lads,  had  he 
known  that  it  had  been  cemented  by  inveigling  poor  Mr. 
Hope  into  a  marsh  in  search  of  cotton-grass,  which,  at 
Gilbert's  instigation,  Algernon  avouched  to  be  a  new  sort 
of  Indian  corn,  grown  in  Italy  for  feeding  silkworms. 

An  intimacy  there  was,  rather  from  constant  inter- 
course than  from  positive  liking.  Gilbert  saw  through 
and  disdained  young  Dusautoy's  dulness  and  self-conse- 
quence ;  but  good-natured,  kindly,  and  unoccupied,  he 
had  no  objection  to  associate  with  him,  showing  him 
English  ways,  trying  to  hinder  him  from  needlessly  ex- 
posing himself,  and  secretly  amused  with  his  pretension. 
Algernon,  with  his  fine  horses,  expensive  appointments, 
and  lofty  air,  was  neither  a  discreditable  nor  unpleasant 
companion.  Mr.  Kendal  had  given  his  son  a  horse, 
which,  without  costing  the  guineas  that  Algernon  had 
'  refused '  for  each  of  his  steeds,  was  a  very  respectable- 
looking  animal,  and  the  two  young  gentlemen,  starting 
on  their  daily  ride,  were  a  grand  spectacle  for  more  than 
little  Maurice. 


292  THE  YOUNG  STEP-MOTHER. 

Gilbert  had  suffered  some  eclipse.  Once  he  had  been 
the  grand  parti,  the  only  indisputable  gentleman  ;  but 
now  Mr.  Cavendish  Dusautoy  had  entirely  surpassed  him 
both  in  self-assertion  and  in  the  grounds  for  it.  His  in- 
cipient dandyisms  faded  into  insignificance  beside  the 
splendours  of  the  heir  of  thousands  ;  and  he,  who  among 
all  his  faults  had  never  numbered  conceit  or  forwardness, 
had  little  chance  beside  such  an  implicit  believer  in  his 
own  greatness. 

Nor  was  Bayford  likely  to  diminish  that  faith.  The  non- 
adorers  might  be  easily  enumerated — his  uncle  and  aunt, 
his  tutor,  his  groom,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal,  Gilbert  and 
Sophy  ;  the  rest  all  believed  in  him  as  thoroughly  as  he 
did  in  himself.  His  wealth  was  undoubted,  his  accom- 
plishments were  rated  at  his  own  advertisement,  and  his 
magnanimous  condescension  was  esteemed  at  full  value. 
Eeally  handsome,  good-natured  and  sociable,  he  delighted 
to  instruct  his  worshippers  by  his  maxims,  and  to  bend 
graciously  to  their  homage.  The  young  ladies  had  but 
one  cynosure !  Few  eyes  were  there  that  did  not  pursue 
his  every  movement,  few  hearts  that  did  not  bound  at  his 
approach,  few  tongues  that  did  not  chronicle  his  daily 
comings  and  goings. 

*  It  would  save  much  trouble,'  said  Albinia,  i  if  a  court 
circular  could  be  put  into  the  Bayford  paper.' 

The  Kendals  were  the  only  persons  whom  Algernon 
regarded  as  in  any  way  on  a  footing  with  him.  Finding 
that  the  lady  was  a  Ferrars,  and  had  been  in  Italy,  he 
regarded  her  as  fit  company,  and  whenever  they  met,  fa- 
voured her  with  the  chief  and  choicest  of  his  maxims,  lit- 
tle knowing  how  she  and  his  aunt  presumed  to  discuss 
him  in  private. 

Without  being  ill-disposed,  he  had  been  exceedingly 
ill-taught ;  his  mother,  the  child  of  a  grasping  vulgar 
father,  had  little  religious  impression,  and  that  little  had 
not  been  fostered  by  the  lax  habits  of  a  self-expatriated 
Englishwoman,  and  very  soon  after  his  arrival  at  Bayford 
his  disregard  of  ordinary  English  proprieties  had  made  it- 
self apparent.  On  the  first  Sunday  he  went  to  church  in 
the  morning,  but  spent  the  evening  in  pacing  the  garden 


THE   YOU^s'G   STEP-3IOTHER.  293 

with  a  cigar ;  and  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day  week  his 
aunt  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  horse's  hoofs  on  the 
road.  Mr.  Dusautoy  was  at  school,  and  she  started  up, 
met  the  young  gentleman,  and  asked  him  what  strange 
mistake  could  have  been  made.  He  made  her  a  slight 
bow,  and  loftily  said  he  was  always  accustomed  to  ride  at 
that  hour  !  '  But  not  on  Sunday  ! '  she  exclaimed.  He 
was  not  aware  of  any  objection.  She  told  him  his  uncle 
would  be  much  displeased  ;  he  replied  politely  that  he 
would  account  to  his  uncle  for  his  conduct ;  begged  her 
pardon,  but  he  could  not  keep  his  horse  waiting. 

Mrs.  Dusautoy  went  back,  fairly  cried  at  the  thought 
of  her  husband's  vexation,  and  the  scandal  to  the  whole  town. 

The  Vicar  was,  of  course,  intensely  annoyed,  though 
he  still  could  make  excuses  for  the  poor  boy,  and  laid  all 
to  the  score  of  ignorance  and  foreign  education.  He 
made  Algernon  clearly  understand  that  the  Sunday  ride 
must  not  be  repeated.  Algernon  mumbled  something 
about  compromising  his  uncle  and  offending  English  prej- 
udices, by  which  he  reserved  to  himself  the  belief  that  he 
yielded  out  of  magnanimity,  not  because  he  could  not 
help  it ;  but  he  could  not  forgive  his  aunt  for  her  peremp- 
tory opposition  ;  he  became  unpleasantly  sullen  and  morose 
as  regularly  as  the  Sunday  came  round,  and  revenged 
himself  by  pacing  the  verandah  with  his  cigar,  or  prac- 
tising anything  but  sacred  music  on  his  key-bugle  in  his 
painting-room. 

The  youth  was  really  fond  of  his  uncle,  but  he  had 
imbibed  all  his  mother's  contempt  for  her  sister-in-law. 
Used  to  be  wheedled  by  an  idolizing  mother,  and  to  reign 
over  her  court  of  parasites,  he  had  no  notion  of  obeying, 
and  a  direct  command  or  opposition  roused  his  sullen 
temper  of  passive  resistance.  When  he  found  '  that  little 
nobody  of  a  Mrs.  John  Dusautoy '  so  far  from  being  a 
flatterer,  or  an  adorer  of  his  perfections,  inclined  to  laugh 
at  him,  and  bent  on  keeping  him  in  order,  all  the  enmity 
of  which  he  was  capable  arose  in  his  mind,  and  though  in 
general  good-natured  and  not  aggressive,  he  had  a  decided 
pleasure  in  doing  what  she  disapproved,  and  thus  assert- 
ing the  dignity  of  a  Greenaway  Cavendish  Dusautoy. 


294  THE  YOUNG   STEP-MOTHER. 

The  atelier  was  a  happy  invention.  Certainly  weari- 
some noises,  and  an  aroma  of  Havannahs  would  now  and 
then  proceed  therefrom  ;  but  he  was  employed  there  the 
chief  part  of  the  day,  and  fortunately  his  pictures  were  of 
small  size,  and  took  an  infinite  quantity  of  labour,  so  that 
they  could  not  speedily  outrun  all  the  Vicarage  walls- 
He  favoured  the  University  of  Oxford  by  going  up 
with  Gilbert  for  matriculation,  when,  to  the  surprise  of  Mr. 
Hope,  he  was  not  plucked.  They  were  to  begin  their 
residence  at  the  Easter  term.  Mrs.  Dusautoy  did  not 
confess  even  to  Albinia  how  much  she  looked  forward  to 
Easter. 

In  early  spring,  a  sudden  and  short  illness  took  away 
Madame  Belmarche's  brave  spirit  to  its  rest,  after  sixty 
years  of  exile  and  poverty,  cheerfully  borne. 

There  had  been  no  time  to  summon  Genevieve,  and 
her  aunt  would  not  send  for  her,  but  decided  on  breaking 
up  the  school,  which  could  no  longer  be  carried  on,  and 
going  to  live  in  the  Hadminster  convent.  And  thus,  as 
Mr.  Kendal  hoped,  all  clanger  of  renewed  intercourse  be- 
tween his  son  and  Genevieve  ended.  Gilbert  looked  pale 
and  wretched,  and  Sophy  hoped  it  was  with  compunction 
at  having  banished  Genevieve  at  such  a  moment,  but  not 
a  word  was  said — and  that  page  of  early  romance  was 
turned ! 


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